Meredith crept closer to the television. “Is that the guy who did it?”
“He looks like a psycho,” Mike said.
Byron squinted at the screen. “Is it me, or does he look familiar?”
Aria pressed her lips together, afraid she was going to throw up. The cops pushed Hallbjorn into a police car. The reporter’s voice cut in. “The police apprehended the self-proclaimed eco-terrorist today, after he tried to flee on a bike,” she explained. “I’m getting word that he thought the panthers were ‘oppressed’ and ‘not able to live out a pantherly existence.’”
“Pantherly existence.” Mike snickered.
“I swear I’ve seen him somewhere.” Byron squinted at the screen. Hallbjorn’s head was hanging out the car window. “Panthers have souls, too!” he bellowed, waving his arms around. His name scrolled across the bottom of the picture. Hallbjorn Gunterson, Eco-Terrorist, it said in big yellow letters.
Byron rubbed his chin. “That’s an Icelandic name.”
The reporter appeared on the camera. “We’re just getting details about Mr. Gunterson. He only arrived in this country a few days ago, fleeing from police custody in Iceland. He’s wanted there because he tried to blow up an office at the demolition company that was hired to tear down an Icelandic puffin sanctuary.”
“What?” Aria exclaimed out loud. Everyone turned to look at her, and she shrugged sheepishly to cover her reaction. Hallbjorn had certainly glossed over those details. Suddenly, all of her regret and nostalgia disappeared. Hallbjorn truly was a lunatic.
Mike placed a hand to his chin. “Actually, didn’t you date someone in Iceland named Hallbjorn, Aria?”
“Uh, yeah.” Aria wound a piece of hair around her finger. “But it’s a pretty common name.”
“It is?” Mike looked skeptical.
“Of course it is.” Aria tossed her hair over her shoulder and sauntered out of the room. There was no way she could watch another minute of the newscast without giving her secret away. And that, she had decided, was absolutely out of the question. It was like the question of the tree falling in the forest: If no one knew Aria got married, if no one saw, then it had never happened. She’d gotten the marriage annulled before it was logged into any permanent records. No one would be able to trace Hallbjorn to her.
The only real proof Aria had left that a marriage had taken place was the snake ring. She felt for it in her pocket as she climbed the stairs. Some pawnshop would buy it. She’d steal into Philly next week, go to a neighborhood where she definitely wouldn’t be recognized, and get rid of it once and for all. And as for the money she’d get, maybe she’d give it to the poor kid who’d gotten trapped by one of the panthers under the boardwalk. Or to the strippers who’d had to run out of the club half-naked because a panther had gotten loose inside. Or maybe she’d use it to take a real vacation over spring break.
But no matter what, this was something she never had to think about again. No one knew, after all—and she was planning to keep it that way forever.
A Very Married Christmas
Lions and tigers and silver panthers, oh my! Biedermeister and Bitschi’s pet cats weren’t the only dangerous things running around Atlantic City. Aria thinks the sole witnesses to her marriage and annulment were some celebrity look-alikes and a grumpy court official, but I had front row seats for the whole affair. And unlike the state of New Jersey, I’m not going to pretend it never happened—especially when I learned sooooo much from the unhappy couple.
Like . . . while Hallbjorn may know how to detonate an explosive, Aria’s the one with the self-destruct button. She ruins everything she touches: Ezra’s career. Her parents’ marriage. Her own relationships. Yet for someone so easily burned, Aria keeps playing with fire—she falls in and out of love faster than you can say “I do.” I can only imagine who her next relationship will be with—another artist, another Typical Rosewood Boy?—and how it will end. Unless, of course, I end it for her.
This is the problem with artsy girls. They treat life like a blank canvas, painting over their missteps and never learning from their mistakes. Every new guy, every new town is simply an opportunity to try on a new persona. But moving to Iceland doesn’t fix a broken family, dyeing a vintage wedding dress lime-green doesn’t make it fabulous new prom-wear, and nothing, absolutely nothing, gets Aria and her friends off the hook for what they did.
The honeymoon’s over, Aria. And reality is going to bite.
That’s something Spencer has to find out, too. She still hopes that she can start fresh with her damaged family. But don’t worry, my pretties. Spencer is about to learn that not everyone deserves—or gets—a happy New Year . . .
Spencer’s Pretty Little Secret
Chapter 1
Deep Freeze in the Warm Florida Sun
The day after Christmas, Spencer Hastings sat squished in a narrow leather seat of a private plane as it touched down at the airport in Longboat Key, Florida. Through the window, she watched the heat rise up from the tarmac, making the palm trees look like they were swaying and shimmering. The sun beat down ruthlessly on the traffic controllers, who strutted about in T-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses. It was a huge change from the seventeen-degree weather and two-foot snowdrifts in Rosewood. Spencer couldn’t think of a better time to take a vacation to Nana Hastings’s Florida beach house—although given that her family was, as usual, barely speaking to her, she could think of many better groups to travel with.
Spencer’s mother, who sat farther up the aisle and was dressed in her requisite flying uniform of a cashmere hoodie and yoga pants, lifted the satin sleep mask from her eyes. “Peter, did you remember to rent a car?”
Spencer’s father paused from typing on his Android phone and let out an exasperated puff of air. “Of course I did. I rented a Mercedes SUV.”
“The G-class?”
“No.” He stood and grabbed everyone’s bags from the overhead compartment. “The ML350.”
Spencer’s mother made a face. “But the G550 has more legroom.”
“Veronica, everything is walkable in Longboat Key—we don’t even really need a car.” He dropped Spencer’s mother’s travel-sized Louis Vuitton bag on the empty seat next to her.
The captain interrupted, telling the family that they’d landed—duh—and that Gina, the flight attendant, would open the door so they could disembark. Spencer eased out of the aisle behind her parents. Her sister, Melissa, fell in line behind her, keeping her head down and her iPod earbuds securely in each ear. She hadn’t said a word the whole flight, which was odd—normally, she didn’t shut up about the town house she was renovating, how well she was doing at the University of Pennsylvania Wharton School of business, or how generally fabulous she was.
Spencer knew the reason for Melissa’s silence. A month and a half ago, Melissa’s boyfriend, Ian Thomas, had been arrested for murdering Spencer’s old best friend Alison DiLaurentis. Apparently, Ian and Ali had been secret lovers; Ali had pushed Ian to expose their relationship, and Ian had killed her in a frustrated rage. As Melissa’s boyfriends were usually blue bloods groomed to make partner at daddy’s law firm or become the next state senator, Ian’s circumstances represented a bit of a step down. Melissa didn’t believe Ian had really done it, but that didn’t matter. The rest of Rosewood sure did.
The situation was made even more complicated by the fact that Spencer had been the one who’d turned Ian in—she had recalled seeing him the night Ali went missing. In the month since Ian was thrown in jail, Melissa had been extra-frosty with Spencer—an impressive feat, considering the sisters didn’t have a good relationship to begin with. Over the past few months, things had gone from bad to worse: They’d fought viciously over a boy, aired their dirty sisterhood laundry in front of a therapist, and had gotten into a colossal argument that ended with Spencer accidentally pushing Melissa down the stairs. Not to mention that Spencer had stolen Melissa’s AP Econ paper and claimed it as her own, winning a prestigious Golden Orchid essay contest as a result.
Gina opened the hatch, and the family climbed down the rickety staircase onto the runway. The Florida heat and humidity enveloped Spencer immediately, and she shucked her North Face jacket. The Hastings family walked stiffly and silently into the terminal, their synchronized footsteps the only indication they even knew each other at all.
Inside, a uniformed man held up a small sign that read HASTINGS. He led them to their waiting SUV, on loan from the local car rental place. Spencer’s father signed some papers, loaded their luggage into the back, and everyone climbed in, slamming their doors loudly behind them. Spencer’s father stepped on the gas, hard enough that Spencer’s body lurched back against the plush leather seats.
“Ugh, it stinks like cigarettes in here.” Her mother fanned the air in front of her face, breaking the silence. “Couldn’t you have had them clean it out, Peter?”
Her father sighed audibly. “I don’t smell anything.”
“I don’t smell anything, either,” Spencer put in, wanting to stand up for her dad. Her mom had been ragging on him for days now.
But this just earned her a chilly look from them both. Spencer knew why. Against their wishes, she had declined the Golden Orchid award last month, admitting to the judging committee that she’d plagiarized her sister’s paper. Her parents had wanted her to keep quiet about it and just accept the award, but dealing with Ali’s death, discovering the identity of her killer, getting stalked by Mona Vanderwaal–as-A, and having Mona nearly push her off a cliff had put everything in perspective.
Spencer sank down in the backseat and stared out the window as her father turned onto the main boulevard. She’d been to Nana’s house so many times she could walk this street blindfolded—first came the marina, with its enormous private yachts, then the yacht club, which had a tasteful sign out front that said LUAU DECEMBER 28, 9 P.M., then the bridge that was raised whenever a particularly tall boat passed through, followed by the many overpriced shops and fancy restaurants. And everywhere, women in sprawling sun hats and oversized sunglasses peppered the sidewalks and outdoor patios, while men, looking fresh in their golf clothes, parked their convertibles and flashed their whitened teeth.
Mr. Hastings rolled up to the gated community where Nana Hastings lived. A guard with tanned, leathery skin and wearing a polyester uniform checked them off on a clipboard and waved them through. After passing a brilliant green golf course, a multitiered pool in which Spencer had spent many hours swimming, a private shopping area, and a world-class spa, they turned on Sand Dune Drive and approached the huge white compound that looked like a mix between the White House and Cinderella’s castle at Disney World. Doric columns flanked the front façade. Terraces lined the sides and the back. A tall turret jutted into the sky. The yard was elegantly landscaped; not a single flower was anything less than wedding-arrangement perfect. As Spencer’s father opened the car door, she could hear the roar of the ocean. It butted up to the back of the house; a private deck looked out onto the beach.
