We pull up in front of the Shelby-Bergen house in no time at all. It’s still cookie-cutter perfect, the lawn sun-dappled and green. At odds with the specter of death I know I’ll find inside. A family grieving.

“If it were me, I’d try to get my hands on the CCTV video from the school,” Suzanne says, prattling on as I throw open the door, stick one foot out. “Surely they have it. That’s what the police will be looking at, too. Just a thought.”

“Thanks.” I punctuate my statement by slamming the door behind me.

It’s a good idea, but I don’t remember inviting the entire Weston household into my investigation. I do, however, remember the eagle-eye cam Bronte pointed to outside the athletic center. Maybe that video could show me who went off in the same direction as Natalie and when. How to get it is another question.

I knock with three quick raps, my dark hair reflecting in the warped triptych of glass cut into the door. Doe eyes, rimmed red, greet me on the other side.

“Morgan? What are you doing here?” I ask.

Morgan runs fingers through her hair.

“What do you think?” She sniffs.

“Your police interview didn’t go well?” Her name had crackled through the intercom about an hour after Luke’s. And now here she is, fitting in a quick session with Dr. Shelby, much like I am.

Morgan’s face crumples. “They won’t leave me alone about the stupid dress. Natalie could be a selfish bitch, and, yeah, I was mad, but not enough to murder her. That’s outrageous.” Fury melts into shame as Morgan catches my searing gaze.

I can’t help it. Her anger is enthralling.

“God, I can’t believe I said that,” she mumbles. “Please forget I said that.”

“You’re allowed to feel your feelings, whatever they are,” I say, trying to reassure her, therapy mode rubbing off on me. Then I switch tacks, because I can’t pass up the opportunity to clear up Morgan’s alibi. “So you fought, and then what? Where did you go?”

Now she squirms, refuses to look at me.

“I can’t.”

“It’s weighing on you, whatever it is.”

“They think whoever destroyed it did it as a warning. That they must be the killer as well. But I could never hurt Natalie, I swear.”

“A warning? You mean…the dress?” The pink dress we found in Natalie’s secret locker. I remember the scratch on the table when the sheriff showed something to Luke. I did not fucking do that, he’d seethed. “That was you?”

Morgan nods, fresh shame spreading across her cheeks.

“I was so mad. I wanted her to suffer, just a bit. But then she died, I mean…God!”

Grief washes over her, and I know Morgan’s a drama kid, but I don’t think this is acting.