“Now you’re gun-shy?” Ben sidles close with a lopsided smile. Tips my chin up and captures my mouth in a kiss. “We do have one issue, though. I can get you into the office with the CCTV footage, but I can’t promise I can crack the security to access the videos.”

A wicked grin spreads across my face.

“Lucky for you, I can. But we have to make a stop first.”

Twenty minutes and a wardrobe change later, we’re outside Bronte’s house, with her in the car.

“No. No way,” Bronte protests from the back seat. “The worst consequence Amber faces if her dad catches her snooping is some light grounding, but I could be arrested and charged. I’d have to report that to colleges I apply to. And my family can’t afford a lawyer.”

She narrows her eyes at me.

“Why do you even think I can hack into the school’s security system?”

“Because you’ve done it before.”

Bronte goes silent. I know I’m right. Even if I feel oily all over, resorting to the Natalie Bergen playbook, exploiting a friend.

“You got Addison Harper the answer key to the AP Chemistry test two years ago. Mr. Diaz is an ecofreak. Paper-free classroom. So the only way to get his answer key would have been digitally.”

Ben’s eyes go wide. “You’ve got to be shitt—”

“Shut up, Vann,” Bronte snaps back. Her eyes never leave mine. “How do you know about that?”

It’s worth the risk. And, besides, I’m asking her to commit a crime. I tell her about Natalie’s therapy scheme.

“So are you blackmailing me now?” Bronte accuses.

“No, I’m asking you to help me, as my friend. As Natalie’s friend.”

She snorts. “You just told me my friend was spying on me. Fuck Natalie.”

It’s so unlike Bronte. Raw and royally pissed.

“You don’t mean that. Or maybe you do. But she’s dead. We have to find out why. Who did it. Please, will you help us?”

Bronte chews at her bottom lip. Bites down hard until the skin turns an angry purple. Finally, she speaks.

“Give me two minutes to change.”

Looking like a team of beat poets in head-to-toe black, we park in the farthest corner of the school parking lot, then steal up to a side door. I turn Morgan’s magic key in the lock, and we follow the beam from Bronte’s phone flashlight through eerily deserted halls to the front office. There, we find Joe, in a picture on Grace’s desk, taken before a Christmas-themed display in a prison meeting room. He’s in a plain-blue button-down shirt and khaki pants, face lined with unexpected age, and he smirks from the frame like he’s aware we’re up to no good.