Toxic by Sara Shepard
“Um, excuse me,” Emily asked politely. The woman looked up for a brief second, then returned to the gum. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen a blond girl in here. About my height. Kind of . . . rough-looking. Missing some teeth. She might have acted cagey.”
The woman, whose nametag said MARCIE and who had oily hair and a smooth, lineless face, folded her hands. “When was this?”
“Three days ago,” Emily volunteered. “Around three in the afternoon.”
Marcie shook her head fast. “Nope.”
Spencer’s heart sank. “Is there someone else who was working here at the time who might remember?” She tried to control the edge in her voice. “Someone you can call?”
Marcie’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”
“This girl is a really good friend of ours,” Emily piped up quickly. “But she, um, ran away. And we really want to find her.”
Marcie stared at them long and hard, her mouth twitching. Spencer wondered if she recognized them and was trying to place why. Even though all charges against them had been dropped, they were still kind of notorious . . . and their pictures had been everywhere. Maybe this was a bad idea. Marcie might call the police. Fuji would scold them for making trouble.
The cashier shrugged. “We get lots of people coming in and out of here. One blond girl buying water is the same as the next.”
“What about surveillance tapes?” Aria asked desperately. “Can you show us those?”
Marcie looked at them like they were crazy. “Honey, why do you think I would have access to those tapes? I think the management uses them to watch the staff.” She turned back to her register. “Go to the police if you’re really worried. Girls your age shouldn’t have to find a runaway on your own.”
Then she peered behind them, smiling. Mr. Beef Jerky was now in line, holding several long sticks of Slim Jims. There was nothing else to do but move aside and let him pay.
“Shit,” Hanna muttered as they trudged out of the store. “Now what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer said, feeling aimless.
Emily kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. “That hair on that hoodie had better be a DNA match. Then we could get Fuji up here. She could access those surveillance tapes.”
Hanna put her hands on her hips and faced the road. “Maybe we could drive around and look for random barns. We could get lucky.”
“In the dark?” Spencer scoffed. “I doubt it.”
“Party pooper,” Hanna mumbled, slumping back into the car.
The other girls climbed in, too, leaving Spencer alone in the parking lot. Hanna looked out the window at her. “Maybe we should all sleep at my place tonight. I don’t like the idea of us being apart. We could be easy targets for Ali.”
“Yes,” Emily said quickly. “There’s no way I can sleep alone.”
“I’m in,” Aria agreed.
“Me too,” Spencer said. It was a wonderful idea—in case Ali showed up again, four against one were much better odds.
They promised to meet at Hanna’s in an hour. Then Spencer retreated to her car, sinking heavily into the leather seat. The whole day felt wasted. The only thing they’d learned was that Ali was alive . . . and furious. And they already knew that.
Her phone buzzed loudly, jarring her from her thoughts. Spencer stared at the unfamiliar 212 number on caller ID. Swallowing hard, she answered.
“Spencer Hastings?” said a woman’s voice. Spencer said that she was. “My name is Samantha Eggers. I’m the head of the National Anti-Bullying Council in New York City. It’s a new initiative created by Congress last year.”
“Of course,” Spencer said, sitting up straighter. “I know about you.” She’d researched all the bullying outreach programs available to teens while putting together her website. “You’re doing great stuff.”
“No, you’re doing great stuff,” Samantha said, her voice mirthful. “I’m a huge fan of your website. You’re giving kids a voice.” She rushed on. “Listen, I’m calling because we’re making an anti-bullying film that will be used as a tool at schools nationwide next year. I’m looking for voices on bullying, and your name kept coming up among my staff.”
“Really?” Spencer pressed a hand to her chest. “I mean, I only started my website last week. I’m really flattered.”
“So that means you’d like to be part of our video?” Samantha asked, her voice rising. “We’ll film in New York on Tuesday evening. You’re not too far, right? Just an Amtrak ride away? We’ll cover the costs.”
Spencer pushed her hair off her forehead. “That sounds awesome.” She pictured her face in classrooms all over the country, including Rosewood Day. And this was just another way to impress everyone at Princeton.
“Perfect!” Samantha cried.
She gave Spencer the details and directions. After they hung up, Spencer pressed the phone between her hands, her mood buoyed again. Your name kept coming up. She pictured everyone talking about her. Lauding her. She couldn’t wait to tell someone about this—but who? Her friends would appreciate it, of course, and Greg flashed through her mind, too, but that was crazy. She didn’t even know him.
The door to the mini-mart swung open, and Spencer looked up. A man in work pants and a plaid shirt sauntered to his car parked at pump number three. Then her gaze fixed on the registers inside. Something the cashier had said suddenly turned over in her mind. We get lots of people coming in and out of here. One blond girl buying water is the same as the next.
They’d said they were looking for a girl. They’d said Ali was blond. But they hadn’t said what she’d been buying—they weren’t even sure themselves. Why had Marcie mentioned water specifically? Did she know something?
She shut off the ignition and climbed out of the car again. When she was halfway to the mini-mart, something behind her made a loud, sizzling snap. She turned and stared. The lights at the pumps flickered off. A shadow passed behind one of them. Faint footsteps sounded from the back of the building. And then she noticed a parked car she hadn’t seen before. It was a black Acura. It seemed so out of place up here in the land of pickup trucks and practical Subarus.
She thought of the Acura keychain she’d found in her stepfather’s trashed model home. They’d found that car, hadn’t they? Or did Nick have more than one?
Then something flashed in the front seat. It was a head of blond hair.
Spencer’s heart pounded. She crept toward the car, knowing she had to see who was inside. With every step, her chest felt tighter and tighter, and her nerves crackled and snapped. Finally, she approached the car from the side. She steeled herself, then took one more step forward to peer into the front window.
The alarm went off, sending her jumping backward. It was a deafening sound, all whoops and buzzes. Spencer staggered a safe distance away, then stared into the window for real. Only now, the blonde was gone. No one was in the car. She ran her hands down her face. It made no sense. She’d definitely seen a blond head . . . hadn’t she?
It felt like a sign. Spencer fumbled for the door handle and climbed back into her car. She’d turned out of the Turkey Hill lot even before the alarm was silenced.
And before whoever was watching her could do anything worse.
11
ARIA’S FIRST FEATURE
The next morning, Aria stood in the cramped back room of the gallery, watching as Ella carefully swathed the sold Ali painting in Bubble Wrap. They were shipping it to the buyer in New York by a courier truck waiting outside, and they wanted to ensure it got there in one piece. Aria couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
Ella paused. “This is how you imagined she would have looked if she’d lived, right?”
Aria fiddled with a piece of packing tape. Ella had been in the hospital room the first time they’d protested to Fuji that Ali had been part of Nick’s attack, and she’d also heard Fuji shoot down the theory. It was easier for her family to believe that Aria had imagined seeing Ali instead of considering that the
Aria’s gaze moved to Ali’s haunting eyes in the painting. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to capture so precisely Ali’s furious, insane, and unraveled expression—it was as if something demonic had taken hold of her brush. Why had a highbrow art collector in New York City been so captivated by it? Aria had Googled John Carruthers last night; there were numerous pictures of him attending charity events at the Met, the Whitney, and the MoMA. A New York Times profile said that he and his family lived in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street with views of Central Park. His two young daughters, Beverly and Becca, had the FAO Schwarz life-size piano from Big and an authentic Keith Haring mural in their playroom. Hopefully he would hang Ali’s face somewhere the girls would never see it.
And what about Ali? Surely she’d found out that a painting of her face had sold; the deal had even gotten a mention on the Art Now blog. That worried Aria a little. Was Ali totally pissed off that Aria was profiting—hugely—off her image? Should Aria pull out of the transaction?
Stop worrying, she told herself as she helped Ella wrap the rest of the painting. She couldn’t let Ali run her life.
Ella whistled for the courier, who was waiting in the main gallery space, to haul it to the truck. “So,” she said, turning to Aria after he left, “what are you going to do with all that money?”
Aria took a deep breath. When she’d come to work this morning, her mom had announced that the money had been wired into the gallery’s account; in a few days, it would be in her bank account, minus a small gallery fee. “Give you money for a new car so we don’t have to drive that Subaru anymore, for one thing,” she said with a chuckle.
Ella scowled. “I can take care of myself, honey. I say you use it for college.”
It was probably the right thing to do. But the only schools Aria was interested in were art schools—and did Aria need art school if she was already selling paintings? “Or I could put it toward an apartment in New York,” she suggested, giving her mom that sweet, pleading smile that always seemed to work.
Ella seemed skeptical. She raised a finger, ready to probably make a point about how college was invaluable and if she let too much time lapse after high school, she might never go. But then a tall, young guy in a slightly rumpled plaid shirt and olive-green skinny pants appeared in the doorway. He carried a leather bag on his shoulder and had a pair of Ray-Bans propped on his head, and he was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.
“Um, hello?” the guy said in a sonorous, not-too-high but not-too-deep voice. “Are you Aria Montgomery?”
“Yes . . . ,” Aria said cautiously, standing up straighter.
The guy stuck out his hand. “I’m, um, Harrison Miller from Fire and Funnel. It’s an art blog that—”
“I know it!” Aria interrupted, her eyes wide. She was a frequent visitor of Fire and Funnel, a Philadelphia-based indie art site, and was impressed by the blogger’s keen eye and intuition—he seemed to know what was going to be hot months before it hit the mainstream. She hadn’t known the blogger was so young.
Harrison smiled. “Well, cool. Anyway, I’d like to do a piece on you and your artwork. Do you have a sec to chat?”
Aria tried not to gasp. Ella thrust out her hand. “I’m her mother, Ella Montgomery—and I’m the assistant director at this gallery.” She used the brand-new title her boss, Jim, had given her yesterday. “I was the one who facilitated the sale of Aria’s painting.”
“Good to meet you.” Harrison looked uncomfortable. “So . . . is it okay if I talk to Aria alone? I’ll try to put the gallery in the story if I can, though.”
“My little girl is growing up!” Ella crooned, pretending to wipe away a tear. Then she waltzed out of the room. “Of course you can talk to Aria. Take all the time you need.”
Then she shut the door so swiftly the Monet calendar hanging on the back rose in the air before settling softly back down. Aria turned back to Harrison. He smiled at her, then perched on a small, cluttered table in the corner and rummaged through his leather bag. “I heard about the purchase of your painting on Art Now yesterday. It’s a huge deal.”
“No, this is a huge deal.” Aria couldn’t control the starstruck tone in her voice. “I’m really flattered you thought of me.”
“Are you kidding?” Harrison’s face brightened. “Selling a piece to John Carruthers at eighteen years old? That’s unheard of.” He tapped his notepad. “I’m an art history major at Penn, and I do a little painting myself. A big buyer like Carruthers taking an interest in you is huge.”
Aria ducked her head. “I hope he didn’t buy it just because I was, like, on the news and whatever.”
Harrison waved the notion away. “Carruthers buys based on talent, not celebrity.” He paused, studying her intensely. “Sometimes he buys a painting if the artist is pretty, though. Did he come here himself?”
Aria blushed, her mind sticking on the word pretty. “No, it was his buyer—and he was on the phone. I wasn’t even here.”
“Interesting.” Harrison’s blue eyes gleamed. He held Aria’s gaze for a moment, and her stomach flipped over. To be honest, he was cute. Really cute.
Then he looked back down at his pad. “Okay. I want to know everything about you. Not the Alison stuff, but you. What you’re into, who your influences are, where you’ve traveled, what your plans are, if you’ve got a boyfriend . . .” His cheeks flushed.
Aria giggled. She was pretty sure he was flirting. For a split second, Noel’s face flashed through her mind, but then she thought of his awkward expression outside the gallery. I need my space.
“No boyfriend,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”
“Aha,” Harrison said, scribbling on his notepad. “Very good.”
Then Aria told him about her creative process, her parents’ artistic background, and her travels to Iceland—though she left out the last trip, where she’d gotten mixed up with Olaf/Nick. It was easy to talk to Harrison. She loved the way he stared at her as she spoke, like she was the most important person he’d ever talked to. He laughed at all her jokes, and he asked all the right questions, too. She also liked how sexy and artsy he looked as he snapped pictures of her work with his long-lensed SLR camera, checking the screen after every shot to make sure he got what he’d wanted.
“And what are your future plans?” Harrison asked, setting the camera back down.
Aria breathed in. “Well . . .” Suddenly, what she said next seemed so permanent and definitive. Should she move to New York and try to make it as an artist? What if she did and it was a horrible failure?
Her phone rang. Aria’s stomach lurched, wondering if it might be Fuji—they hadn’t heard anything yet about the hoodie’s DNA results. But it was a 212 number. NEW YORK CITY, said the caller ID.
“Do you mind if I grab this?” she asked Harrison. He nodded, and she answered tentatively.
“Aria Montgomery?” said a gruff woman’s voice. “This is Inez Frankel. I own the Frankel-Franzer Gallery in Chelsea. I just heard on Art Now about your painting selling. You’re hot, girl—but you probably already know that. Do you have any other pieces to show?”
“Uh . . .” Aria’s mind spun. “Well, I have other pieces completed.”
“And I’m sure they’re awesome. Listen, send me some JPEGs of them, could you? If we like them—and I’m sure we will—I want to offer you a three-day show starting next Tuesday—we can move some stuff around and squeeze you in. We’ll make it worth your while, honey. Lots of promo. Tons of press. A big party during the opening. Everything will sell—at my gallery, it always does.”
“Excuse me?” Aria squeaked, astonished. A gallery show? In New York City?
Her other line beeped. Aria glanced at the caller ID again; this time, a call was coming in from a 718 area code: Brooklyn. “My name is Victor Grieg, from the Space/Think Gallery in Williamsburg—I saw your story on Art Now,” a fast-talking man with a heavy foreign accent said. He asked the same qu
“I—I don’t have an agent,” Aria stammered. “Can I call you back?”
She hung up on both galleries. Harrison looked at her curiously, and Aria grinned. “Two galleries in New York want to give me shows!” she announced gleefully. The statement hardly seemed real.
Harrison gave her a knowing look. “This is your start!” He leaned forward like he wanted to hug her, then seemed to change his mind and hung back. “So when do they want to show you?”
“N-next week. Starting on Tuesday.” The reality struck her. Aria glanced at her other paintings stacked in the corner. Did she have enough? She couldn’t sell the ones of Noel—that would just be too weird. Then her gaze settled on the all-black canvas, Ali’s sixth-grade smirk covered over. She couldn’t use that one, either. She definitely needed to paint more over the next few days.
Harrison beamed. “Well, I’ll let you finish up with the galleries—I think I’ve got all I need for my post. But hey, I never like to miss a gallery show of the artists I feature—maybe I could snag an invite?”
“Of course!” Aria cried, wondering if she should ask him if he’d be her date. She’d only just met him, though.
Harrison looked pleased. He stood, rummaged in his pocket, and handed her a slim white card. The swirly Fire and Funnel logo was at the top, and below was his name in gray ink. Her fingers brushed his as she took his card. Aria moved toward him, wanting to get in that hug after all, but now Harrison was fiddling with his bag. When he looked at her again, she felt shy.
So she stuck out her hand. “Great to meet you.”
“Absolutely.” Harrison shook her hand, his fingers pressed against hers for an extra beat. Aria was pleased to note that her stomach did a little flip. “See you soon,” he added.
When he was gone, Aria turned back to her phone, eager to call the galleries back. Which should she go with? Who would give her a better show? She felt like a princess who had too many suitors to choose from. It was crazy to think that just moments before, in her interview, she’d been unsure about how to answer the question about her future. Now it was like it had been served to her on a silver platter, every detail falling into place. This is your start, Harrison had said to her excitedly.