She pulled to a red traffic light and looked at her phone. A local news feed for Ashland was on her screen, but there was still nothing on the police investigation at the pool house. But that had to be a good thing, right? She and the others had talked about it before they left Emily’s this morning. News that Alison DiLaurentis was still alive—and had killed someone else—was a huge deal. An FBI screwup, actually. Of course the cops would keep the press at bay for as long as they could until their PR people figured out how to positively spin things.
The light turned green, and she rolled through it and made the turn to the set. The parking lot was mostly empty, and as she drove past the soundstages, she peeked into the alley where BreAk a leg, Hanna had been written on the ground in chalk.
She found a spot right in front of her trailer. Sighing, she got out of the car and started toward the steps, trying to figure out how she was going to tell Hank she didn’t want the job after all. Then she noticed someone standing on the steps already, blocking her way in.
Hailey.
Hanna’s heart dropped. Hailey looked tired and frazzled, her dark hair in a messy knot on her head and her makeup a little smudged. When she regarded Hanna, her eyes were narrowed and her lips were taut. Hanna wished she could whirl around and pretend she hadn’t seen her. She so couldn’t do a confrontation right now.
But Hailey was right there, staring at her. After a moment, she nodded at Hanna in greeting. “So my agent sent me dailies for the film yesterday,” she began. “I got to see my performance as Hanna Marin up close and personal.”
“Oh,” Hanna said uncertainly, wondering where this conversation was going.
“And I was awful.”
Hanna’s head shot up. Hailey’s eyes were wide and she looked distraught, but not at Hanna. “I was dreadful, Hanna. I used this stupid voice, and I was chewing gum all the time—I’m not even sure why I did that. My movements were all over the place. My agent was, like, Thank God you got out of that thing. You were a train wreck.”
“No, you weren’t!” Hanna cried automatically.
Hailey lowered her chin. “Don’t lie to me again, Hanna. I was terrible. Hank was right to get rid of me. And you know what? I kind of knew I was terrible, deep down. I never felt right playing you.”
Hanna awkwardly twisted her hands. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” It was all she could think to say.
“Oh, whatever.” Hailey waved her hand. “You know who I do think would be good at playing Hanna Marin? You.”
Hanna laughed nervously. Hailey didn’t look like she was kidding, though. In fact, she was kind of . . . smiling.
“Actually, I don’t think I want the part,” Hanna said. “Not anymore.”
“Are you kidding?” Hailey burst out. “You’ll be amazing in this movie, Hanna—in a way that I wasn’t. So do it for me. Please.”
Hanna blinked hard, astonished this was happening. “I’m sorry I went behind your back and asked Hank. But I really thought you didn’t want the part anymore. I wasn’t trying to be mean, or—”
“I know.” Hailey leaned against Hanna’s trailer. “We’re all good.” She looked contemplative for a moment, then added, “And I’m sorry I sent in that photo to TMZ. That was pretty bitchy of me. I hope Mike isn’t too upset.”
Hanna looked away, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Actually . . . I think it ruined my relationship with Mike forever.”
One corner of Hailey’s mouth inched up slightly. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
Then she turned. The trailer door opened. Mike stood in the doorway, dressed in a lacrosse sweatshirt and jeans and with a sheepish look on his face. Hanna’s mouth dropped open.
“Hey,” he said shyly to Hanna.
“H-hey,” she stammered just as shyly back.
Hailey beamed at both of them. “I called Mike this morning and explained everything, especially about how that kiss with Jared was completely initiated by him and totally harmless.” She smiled broadly. “You’ve got yourself a keeper, Hanna. I wish I were so lucky.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said tentatively. Then she peeked at Mike. He was still smiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about that kiss.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to explain,” Mike said. Then he grinned mischievously. “Although, now that you’re a big-shot movie star, do you think you can maybe get that Jared guy fired? I mean, not only do I not want him thinking he can go around kissing you on the reg, but he really doesn’t have my vibe at all.”
Hanna burst out laughing. “Only if you volunteer to play yourself.”
“Done,” Mike said. “Now, come here and hug me so we can make up for the few hours I have until I have to catch a train back to soccer camp.”
Hanna ran up to him and fell into his arms, squeezing him as tightly as she could. It was incredible. In one fell swoop, everything was right again. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if things would just . . . stay this way?
A new sensation blossomed inside her. Hanna basked in the unfamiliar feeling. It was so unknown that at first she couldn’t even put a name to it.
But then she realized what it was. Hope.
33
NO PRESS IS BAD PRESS
Aria parked on a side street in Old Hollis and looked around. The same beat-up Mercedes, vintage Jaguar, and bright orange VW bus surrounded her at the curb. The same potted plants sat on the front stoop of the large Victorian across from the gallery, and the same rainbow gay pride flag waved over the front porch of the Tudor-style house next door. The neighborhood was unchanged. . . . It was only Aria who was different.
An older couple walked out of the gallery hand in hand. Aria crouched down behind a bush, not quite wanting anyone inside to see her yet. She wasn’t ready to do this.
She looked at her phone again. PRETTY LITTLE FRAUD, read the front page of the New York Post. Frank Brenner, the reporter who had called her yesterday, had written about the fake transaction using John Carruthers’s name as a publicity stunt of Aria’s. “‘My mother took the call, so I had to disguise my voice,’” Brenner quoted Aria as saying. He’d also said that Aria had seemed very “distraught” on the phone when he’d called her, clearly because “she was horrified that she’d actually gotten caught.”
The story also said that a banking institution was tracking down the source of those funds, implying that Aria had randomly used someone’s account. In a normal world, that would be a good thing—the account would lead back to Maxine Preptwill. But Aria knew Ali was too smart to be sloppy; she’d probably used Aria’s name and Social Security number at the bank. Because she was just that devious.
Everything was such a mess. Patricia, Aria’s agent, had called her a zillion times, but Aria hadn’t picked up, way too embarrassed to have the inevitable conversation. She couldn’t even bring herself to listen to Patricia’s messages. There were other ramifications, too. How would this affect Ella? Her mom had facilitated the sale; what if the press thought she was involved in Aria’s get-famous-quick scheme? What if Carruthers sued her? Would Ella’s boss fire her mom? What if she was blacklisted from the art world? What if the whole gallery shut down because of this stupid—and untrue—scandal?