Heartless by Sara Shepard Page B

lecherous artist who’d hit on Aria, Aria had been avoiding her. And while her dad certainly had a point, Aria was in too deep to unwind herself from the Ali investigation now.
    “Talking about it might help,” Byron tried when Aria still didn’t answer, turning down the jazz CD. “You can even tell me about . . . you know. Seeing Alison.”
    They passed a farm that had six stout white alpacas, then a Wawa. Stop saying you saw Ali, Wilden’s voice reverberated in Aria’s mind. Something about it continued to bother her. He sounded so . . . aggressive. “I don’t know what we saw,” she admitted weakly. “I want to believe that we just inhaled a lot of smoke and that’s the end of it. But what are the odds of us all seeing Ali at the exact same time, doing the exact same thing? Isn’t that kind of strange?”
    Byron put his blinker on and shifted to the right lane. “It is strange.” He sipped from his Hollis College coffee mug. “Remember how a few months ago you asked me if ghosts could send text messages?”
    The conversation was blurry in Aria’s mind, but she remembered talking to Byron after receiving the first message from Old A. Before Ali’s body was found in her old backyard, Aria had wondered if Ali’s ghost had been sending those messages from beyond the grave.
    “Some people believe that the dead can’t rest until they impart an important message.” Byron braked at a stoplight behind a Toyota Prius that had a VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS bumper sticker.
    “What do you mean?” Aria sat up straighter.
    They swept past Clocktower, a million-dollar housing development with its own golf club, and then the little township park. A few brave souls were out in heavy down parkas, walking their dogs. Byron breathed out through his nose. “I just mean . . . Alison’s death was a mystery. They’ve arrested the killer, but no one really knows for sure what happened. And you girls were right where Alison died. Her body had been there for years.”
    Aria reached over and took a sip from her dad’s mug. “So you’re saying . . . it could’ve been Ali’s ghost?”
    Byron shrugged, making a right. They pulled into the drive at Rosewood Day and slowed to a crawl behind a line of buses. “Maybe.”
    “And you think she wants to tell us something?”
    Aria asked incredulously. “So you don’t think Ian did it either?”
    Byron shook his head vehemently. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that sometimes, certain things can’t be explained rationally.”
    A ghost. It sounded like he was channeling hippy-dippy Meredith. But as Aria glanced at her dad’s profile, there were taut lines around his mouth. His eyebrows were knitted together, and he was doing that neck-scratching thing again. He was serious.
    She turned to Byron, suddenly filled with questions. Why would Ali’s ghost be here? What was her unfinished business? And what was Aria supposed to do now?
    But before she could say a word, there was a sharp knock on the passenger door. Aria hadn’t realized they’d already pulled to the curb of Rosewood Day. Three reporters swarmed around the car, snapping photos and pressing their faces against the window. “Miss Montgomery?” a woman called, her voice loud through the glass.
    Aria gaped at them and then looked desperately at her dad. “Ignore them,” Byron urged. “Run.”
    Taking a deep breath, Aria pushed the door open and barreled her way through the throng. Cameras flashed. Reporters babbled. Behind them, Aria saw students gaping, perversely fascinated by the commotion. “Did you really see Alison?” the reporters called. “Do you know who set the fire?” “Did someone set that fire in the woods to cover up a vital clue?”
    Aria swiveled around at the last question but kept her mouth shut.
    “Did you set the fire?” a dark-haired thirtysomething man shouted. The reporters moved in closer.
    “Of course not!” Aria shouted, alarmed. Then she elbowed past them, scampering up