Emma shifted her weight. “I don’t think so. . . .” She thought about the file at the police station—Gabby going to the hospital, all of it being Sutton’s fault. She still hadn’t figured out how Gabby had gotten hurt, but a trip to the ER couldn’t have been good. “It might be going too far. Especially after what happened . . .” She let her voice trail off and gazed out the window, figuring Sutton’s friends knew far more about the train incident than she did.

Sutton’s friends were silent. Laurel stared at her hands and picked at a cuticle. Madeline flipped through her binder. “Oh please,” Charlotte finally said. “Now that you’re all buddy-buddy with them, they’re off-limits?”

Emma raised an eyebrow. Buddy-buddy? Not from what she’d noticed of the Twins.

Charlotte draped her arms over the top of the couch. “They said they shoplifted with you at Clique,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Gabby and Lili bragged about it like it was the coolest thing, like we all hadn’t done it a million times before.”

Madeline’s mouth dropped open. “Were they with you the other day when you got arrested?”

“No, not that time,” Emma said quickly, her mind racing.

“It was before that,” Charlotte butted in.

Emma turned away, needing a moment to process all of this. According to Sutton’s credit card statement, the last time Sutton was at Clique was on the thirty-first. And Samantha at Clique had said Sutton stole something from the store while she’d been with someone else—or, more specifically, a posse of someones. And the very last phone call Sutton picked up on the thirty-first was from Lili.

“Yeah, I went to Clique with them right before school started,” Emma said slowly.

All of a sudden, a memory ignited in my mind: Gabby and Lili, flanking me behind a rack of silky camisoles and lingerie at Clique. “Do it, Sutton,” Gabby had whispered, her warm, mint-scented breath on my neck.

“C’mon, Sutton,” Laurel urged. “Those bitches deserve to be pranked.”

The room still smelled slightly of smoke. On the television, a lion sunned itself in the grass, blood from a fresh kill on its lips. Emma ran her fingers through her hair, her chest feeling hot and tight. Puzzle pieces began to slot into place. The Twitter Twins had been in all the right places at all the right times—with Sutton the night she died, in Madeline’s car the night Emma was kidnapped and mistaken for Sutton, at Charlotte’s sleepover when Emma had been strangled.

“I still don’t know, guys,” Emma said, her vocal cords taut. “After last time . . .” She trailed off.

Charlotte sniffed. “That was ages ago.”

“It’s just . . .” Emma swallowed hard. “I just don’t . . .”

“Stop being such a wuss.” Madeline reached over and shoved Sutton’s iPhone at Emma. “We’re doing this. You’re calling them.”