Charlotte snorted, staring at her phone, too. “They should go as twin Carries. Then we’d get to dump pig’s blood on their heads.”

Emma’s phone chimed once more. Lili had sent her an additional missive. WHO’S THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL? TAKE THAT, QUEEN BEE-OTCH!

“Well, now they’re officially not coming camping with us after the dance,” Charlotte declared.

“We’re doing that again?” Laurel said, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s tradition,” Charlotte said sharply. She looked at Emma. “Right, Sutton?”

Camping? Emma raised an eyebrow. These girls didn’t seem the outdoorsy types. But she nodded along. “Right.”

“Maybe we could try those awesome hot springs on Mount Lemmon,” Madeline said, twisting her dark hair into a bun. “Gabby and Lili say they’re filled with natural salts that make your skin feel amazing.”

“Enough talk about Gabby and Lili,” Charlotte groaned, adjusting the the cornflower-blue headband in her hair. “I can’t believe we have to plan a party for them. They’re going to be impossible.”

Emma frowned. “Why would we have to plan a party?”

For a moment, everyone just stared at her. Charlotte clucked her tongue. “Remember a little organization called Homecoming Committee? The only activity you’ve been doing since freshman year?”

Emma felt her pulse quicken. She forced a fake heh-heh laugh. “I was being ironic. Ever heard of it?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Well, unfortunately, the court party can’t be ironic. We have to beat last year’s.”

Emma shut her eyes. Sutton . . . on a dance committee? Seriously? When Emma attended school at Henderson High, she and her best friend Alex used to make fun of the dorky dance committee girls. They were all Martha Stewarts–in-training, obsessed with cupcake baking, streamer hanging, and picking the most perfect slow-dance mixes.

But from what I remembered, it was an honor to be on the Homecoming Committee at Hollier. The school also had a strict policy that those planning Homecoming couldn’t be members of the court, which was why Amanda hadn’t called my name just now. If my spotty memory served me correctly, though, last prom I’d paraded into the ballroom with a court sash across my torso.

I wondered: Would Emma still be here to take my place at this year’s prom? Could my murder really go unsolved for that long? Could Emma still be living a lie in the spring? The thought of all of it filled me with dread. It also filled me with the now-familiar ache of sadness: There would be no more proms for me. No more cheesy wrist corsages or stretch limos or after parties. I even missed the bad prom music, the goofy DJs who thought they were the next Girl Talk. When I was alive, I’d let it all pass by so fast, barely registering any of the moments, unaware of how good I had it.