Perfect (Book Three)

Seventeen: Because All Cheesy Relationship Moments Happen In Cemeteries.

Wednesday after school, Aria watched Sean pedal his Gary Fisher mountain bike farther in front of her, easily climbing West Rosewood's hilly country roads. "Keep up!" he teased.

"Easy for you to say!" Aria answered, pedaling furiously on Ella's old beat-up Peugeot ten-speed from college—she'd brought it with her when she moved into Sean's. "I don't run six miles every morning!"

Sean had surprised Aria after school by announcing he was ditching soccer so they could hang out. Which was a huge deal—in the 24 hours she had lived with him, Aria had learned that Sean was uber—soccer boy, the same way her brother was manic about lacrosse. Every morning, Sean ran six miles, did drills, and kicked practice goals into a net set up on the Ackards' lawn until it was time to leave for school.

Aria struggled up the hill and was happy to see that there was a long descent in front of them. It was a gorgeous day, so they'd decided to take a bike ride around West Rosewood. They rose past rambling farmhouses and miles of untouched woods.

At the bottom of the hill, they passed a wrought-iron fence with an ornate entrance gate. Aria hit her brakes. "Hold on. I completely forgot about this place."

She had stopped in front St. Basil's cemetery, Rosewood's oldest and spookiest, where she used to do gravestone rubbings. It was set on acres and acres of rolling hills and beautifully tended lawns, and some of the headstones dated back to the 1700s. Before Aria found her niche with Ali, she'd gone through a goth phase, embracing everything having to do with death, Tim Burton, Halloween, and Nine Inch Nails. The cemetery's leafy oaks had provided the perfect shade for lounging and acting morose.

Sean stopped beside her. Aria turned to him. "Can we go in for a sec?"

He looked alarmed. "Are you sure?"

"I used to love coming here."

"Okay." Sean reluctantly chained his bike to a wrought-iron trash can along with Aria's and started behind her past the first line of headstones. Aria read the names and the dates that she had practically memorized a few years back. Edith Johnston, 1807-1856. Baby Agnes, 1820-1821. Sarah Whittier, with that Milton quote, Death Is The Golden Key That Opens The Palaces Of Eternity. Over the hill, Aria knew, were the graves of a dog named Puff, a cat named Rover, and parakeet named Lily.

"I love graves," Aria said as they passed a big one with an angel statue on the top. "They remind me of 'The Tell-Tale Heart.'"

"The what?"

Aria raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You've read that short story. Edgar Allan Poe? The dead guy's buried in the floor? The narrator can still hear his heart beating?"

"Nope."

Aria put her hands on her hips, dumbstruck. How could Sean not have read that? "When we get back, I'll find my Poe book so you can."

"Okay," Sean agreed, then changed the subject. "You sleep okay last night?"

"Great." A white lie. Her Paris-hotel-like room was beautiful, but Aria had actually found it difficult to sleep. Sean's house was...too perfect. The duvet seemed too fluffy, the mattress too quilted, the room too quiet. It smelled too nice and clean as well.

But more than that, she'd been too worried about the movement outside her guest bedroom window, about the possible stalker sighting, and about A's nose—saying that Ali's killer was closer than she thought. Aria had thrashed around for hours, alone, certain she'd look over and see the stalker—or Ali's killer—at the foot of her bed.

"Your stepmom got all anal on me this morning though," Aria said, skirting around a Japanese cherry blossom tree. "I forgot to make my bed. She made go back upstairs and do it." She snorted. "My mom hadn't done that in about a billion years."