Charlotte’s mother clonked into the kitchen on raffia wedges and gave the makeup artist an air kiss. With her perky boobs, giant Chanel sunglasses, and grass-green Juicy Couture minidress, Charlotte’s mom didn’t look like the rest of the mothers in suburbia, even in Sutton’s upscale Tucson neighborhood. “Ladies, you remember Helene, my makeup guru,” she said, chomping gum between her shiny veneers. “You’re in excellent hands with her.” She slung a studded bag over her shoulder and grabbed her Mercedes keys from the telephone table.

Helene pouted. “You’re not staying to watch the magic?”

Mrs. Chamberlain glanced at her pink diamond-studded watch. “Can’t. I’ve got an appointment for a Brazilian in ten minutes.”

“Mom!” Charlotte covered her ears. “TMI!”

Mrs. Chamberlain gave her daughter a dismissive, you’re-such-a-prude hand flutter. Emma wasn’t sure which was more bizarre—that Charlotte’s mother had just announced she was getting a take-it-all-off bikini wax, or that she trusted her makeup needs to Mistress of the Night Helene.

After Mrs. Chamberlain disappeared out the door, Charlotte turned to Helene. “Can I go first? I’m going as an Egyptian goddess, so I need really dramatic Cleopatra eyes.”

Emma wondered if Sutton would push past Charlotte and demand to go first instead, but she didn’t have the heart to do that.

“Comin’ right up.” Helene opened her giant makeup cases, revealing a bevy of brushes, shadows, powders, mascara wands, and curlers.

As she waited, Emma pulled Sutton’s phone from her pocket and checked out the Twitter Twins’ secret accounts. There was a new entry.

@MissLiliTallywhacker: The night we’ve been waiting for . . .

Emma hoped Lili was just talking about her and Gabby’s big night on the court.

But we both knew it meant more than that.

Madeline turned toward the fridge. “Time for refreshments,” she said, winking at Emma. “Sutton, can you grab some glasses?”

Emma followed Madeline, skirting around the behemoth soapstone island, running her fingers along the eerily familiar surface. The last time she’d been in this kitchen, someone had startled her from behind and nearly strangled her. If she squinted, she could see a faint outline of the scuffmark the assailant’s shoe had made on the baseboard when he or she had rammed Emma against the wall. In the oppressive atmosphere, she could almost hear the attacker’s words lingering in the air: I told you to play along. I told you not to leave.

As Emma laid out four glasses on the island, Madeline pulled a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke from the Chamberlain’s fridge and poured each glass three-quarters full. Then, raising a finger to her lips, she whipped her silver flask from her pocket and topped the drinks off with rum. Emma’s nose tickled with the cloying scent.