Emma stabbed at a piece of chicken on the platter, hating Nisha more with every second. Had Sutton hated her this much, too? But it was more than that. There was something about Nisha that unnerved her. The strange looks she gave Emma, the whispers. It was like she was toying with Emma. Like she knew something—something big.

Emma peered out of the dining room. A large, state-of-the-art kitchen was to her right; on the other side of the foyer was a long, dark hallway, which most likely led to Nisha’s bedroom. Did she dare?

“Be careful,” I warned, even though Emma couldn’t hear me. There was no way Nisha would take kindly to snooping.

Emma stared at the chicken leg she’d selected from the platter, the thin, yellowish flesh suddenly turning her stomach. Discarding her plate, she mumbled something about the bathroom to no one in particular and tiptoed down the hall.

Tiny night-lights illuminated the baseboards. The air smelled like Febreze and Indian spices. Emma pressed open the first door with the very tips of her fingers and stared into a walk-in closet full of towels and sheets. She moved to the next door. It was a hall bathroom, adorned with a paisley shower curtain and a mosaic-tiled mirror. The next door, which led to the master bedroom, stood ajar. The king-sized bed hadn’t been made, and men’s dress shirts, black socks, and shiny black shoes were strewn messily all over the carpet. I guess someone’s cleaning lady didn’t come this week, Emma thought, surprised at how accustomed to an immaculate home she’d become after just a few weeks. A twinge of guilt pinched her when she remembered that Mrs. Banerjee had died this summer.

Emma pushed inside the final door to the right. A light glowed from a meticulous desk. A Compaq laptop sat closed, and a white iPod waited in a charging dock next to it. The rest of the surface was empty and sterile, like a hotel room. Nisha had smoothed the bedspread of all creases, organized eight fluffy pillows just so, and lined up her stuffed animals—one of which was a large tennis racket with two googly eyes—along the headboard. She’d alphabetized all the books on her shelf—which seemed mostly of the stuffy, Victorian, Brontë-sisters variety. Even the slats of the venetian blinds tilted precisely at the same angle.

A peal of laughter sounded from the den, and Emma froze. She peeked through the gap between the door and the wall and counted to three. No one appeared at the end of the hall.