Perfect (Book Two)

Thirty-Five: Special Delivery.

Sunday at 11:52 A.M., Aria sat on her bed, staring at her red-painted fingernails. She felt slightly disoriented, as if she were forgetting something...something huge. Like those dreams she sometimes had where it was June, and she hadn't gone to math class the whole year and was going to flunk out.

And then she remembered. Toby was A. And today was Sunday. Her time was up.

It scared her to put a name and face to A's wrath—and that Ali and Spencer had been covering something up, something that could be really, really serious. Aria still had no idea how Toby had found out about Byron and Meredith, bit if Aria caught them together twice, others could have seen them together, too—including Toby.

She'd meant to tell Ella about everything last night. When Sean dropped her off at home, he asked repeatedly if he should come in with her. But Aria told him no—she had to do what she was going to do alone. The house had been dark and still, the only sound the groaning of the dishwasher on high-scrub mode. Aria had fumbled for the foyer lights, then tiptoed into the dark, empty kitchen. Usually, her mother was up at least until 1 or 2 A.M. on Saturday nights, doing Sudoku puzzles or having discussions with Byron at the table over decaf coffee. But the table was spotless; she could see dried sponge swirls on its surface.

Aria had bounded up to her parents' bedroom, wondering if Ella had fallen asleep early. Their door was wide open. The bed was unmade, but their was no one in it. The master bathroom was empty, too. Then Aria noticed that the Honda Civic her parents shared wasn't in the driveway.

So she waited at the foot of the steps for them to come home, anxiously checking her watch every thirty seconds as it ticked to midnight. Her parents were possibly the only people in the universe who didn't have cell phones, so she couldn't call them. That meant Toby couldn't call them, either...or had he found another way to get in touch?

And then...she'd woken up here, in her bed. Someone must have carried her in, and Aria, who slept like the dead, hadn't noticed a thing.

She listened to the sounds downstairs. Drawers opening and closing. The wood floor groaning under someone's feet. Pages of the newspaper turning. Were there two parents down there, or just one? She tiptoed down the stairs, a billion different scenarios going through her head. Then she saw them: tiny red droplets, all over the entrance hall floor. They made a trail from the kitchen straight to the front door.

It looked like blood.

Aria ran to the kitchen. Toby had told her mother, and Ella, in a rage, had killed Byron. Or Meredith. Or Toby. Or everyone. Or Mike had killed them. Or...or Byron had killed Ella. When she got to the kitchen, she stopped.

Ella was at the table alone. She wore a wine-colored blouse, high heels, and makeup, as if she were ready to go out somewhere. The New York Times was folded to the crossword puzzle, but instead of letters filling in the squares, the page was scribbled over in think, black ink. Ella stared straight ahead, sort of randomly toward the kitchen window, pushing the tines of a fork into the heel of her hand.

"Mom?" Aria croaked, stepping closer. Aria could see now that the blouse was wrinkled and her makeup looked smudged. It was almost like she'd slept in her clothes...or hadn't slept at all.

"Mom?" Aria asked again, her voice tinged with fear. Finally, her mother slowly looked over. Ella's eyes were heavy and swimming. She shoved the fork farther into her palm. Aria wanted to reach out and take it away, but she was afraid. She's never seen her mom like this. "What's going on?"

Ella swallowed. "Oh...you know."

Aria swallowed hard. "What's the...the red stuff in the hall?"

"Red stuff?" Ella asked soullessly. "Oh. Maybe it's paint. I threw out some art supplies this morning. I threw out a lot of stuff this morning."