Heartless. (Book Seven)

Twenty-Two: Ali Returns...Sort Of.

Friday after school, Noel picked Aria up at Byron's house. As she got in the car, he leaned over and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. Despite the butterflies eating away at Aria's stomach lining, she felt a thrill run down her spine.

They drove through the winding streets of various neighborhoods, passing the old farmhouses and the township playground that still had a couple of discarded Christmas trees at the far end of the parking lot. Neither Aria nor Noel spoke, though the silence felt comfortable instead of awkward. Aria was grateful not to have to scramble for small talk.

Aria's phone rang as they were turning onto Ali's old street. Private caller said the screen. Aria answered. "Ms. Montgomery?" chirped a voice. "This is Bethany Richard's from Us Weekly!"

"Sorry, not interested," Aria said quickly, cursing herself answering.

She was about to hang up the phone when the reporter breathed in sharply. "I just wanted to know if you had a response to the People article."

"What People article?" Aria snapped. Noel glanced at her worriedly.

"The one with the poll that says ninety-two percent of people surveyed think you and your friends killed Alison DiLaurentis!" The reporter sounded giddy.

"What?" Aria gasped. "It's not true!" Then she stabbed the end and dropped her phone into her bag. Noel gazed at her, an anxious look on his face. "There's an article in People that says we killed Ali," she whispered.

Noel's eyebrows knit together in a V. "Jesus."

Aria pressed her head to the window, staring vacantly at a passing green sign for the Hollis Arboretum. How on earth could people believe such a crazy thing? Just because of their stupid nickname? Because they hadn't wanted to answer any of the press's rude, prying questions?

They pulled up to Ali's old cul-de-sac. Aria could smell the signed remains from the fire even through the rolled-up windows. The trees were twisted and black, like decomposed limbs, and the Hastingses' windmill was now a pulpy, incinerated carcass. But the worst thing was the Hastingses' barn. Half of it had collapsed, nothing more than a bunch of dark, ruined planks on the ground. The old porch glider, once painted antique white, was now a dirty, rusted hanging creakily by one hinge. It swayed gently, as if a ghost were lazily swinging back and forth.

Noel drew his bottom lip into his mouth, eyeing the barn. "It's like the House of Usher."

Aria gawked at him, amazed. Noel shrugged. "You know. The Poe story where the crazy guy buries his sister in that old, ruined, scary house? And for a while he feels really unsettled and even crazier, and it's because it turns out she's not really dead?"

"I can't believe you know that story," Aria said, pleased.

Noel looked hurt. "I'm in AP English, same as you. I do read from time to time."

"I didn't mean it like that," Aria said quickly, although she wondered if she kind of did.

They parked in front of the DiLaurentises' house and got out. The new owners, the St. Germains, had moved back in after the Ali media circus had died down, but they didn't look to be home, which was a relief. Even better, there wasn't a single news van parked at the curb. Then Aria spied Spencer at her mailbox, a stack of envelopes in her hand. Spencer saw Aria at the exact same time. Her eyes shifted from Aria to Noel, looking a little confused. "What are you guys doing here?" she blurted.

"Hey." Aria walked over, skirting around a large, round hedge. Her nerves jumped and crackled. "Did you hear that people think we killed Ali?"

Spencer made a sour face. "Yeah."