“Yeah, Daddy wouldn’t give up the house in town because it would hurt his public image or something, and Mom says too many of her clients won’t go all the way to the beach house for a session. We’re at the beach house most weekends. Though I have the better bedroom there, plus my walk-in closet, so I’m there during the week a lot, too. You’ll see!”

“I will?”

“Oh yeah, it’s easiest if you come with me to the beach house after your session, and then I’ll drive you back to school for the game. Unless you have a reason to go home first.” She frowns. “I could take you there, but it’d be pretty tight.”

I think about seeing Ben at the game tonight. What I’m wearing is so basic, if appropriately signaling school spirit. I push a greasy lock of hair behind my ear, flushing with shallow shame. I look fine.

Natalie takes my silence as assent, linking our arms together as she pulls me toward the parking lot. As we reach the front of the school, I see them. Maura’s…fans.

“Oh my God, it’s the granddaughter! Cecelia! Cecelia, over here!” Chris from the murder tour beckons me over to what, on first glance, looks like a picket line. But it’s just the line at the curb, beyond which I’m guessing they cannot go during school hours. Luke mentioned something about how he can only run tours after school. There’s maybe twelve people in the cluster.

“Don’t bother her, Chris,” someone pipes up. It’s the vintage-glam chick, also from the murder tour. Today’s outfit is a Peter Pan–collared salmon-pink sweater set paired with navy culottes.

“I’m Reama Ayad.” She thrusts out her hand, and on instinct I shake it. Immediate regret spreads through me. I’ve opened the door now. They’ll feel entitled. And, indeed, entitled is an apt word for Reama. “I run the biggest Maura fan blog on the internet.” She tosses her silky dark hair over her shoulder, smug. “I get over one hundred and fifty thousand hits a year. I would love to interview you. You’re a real surprise to the fandom. We had no clue Maura had a granddaughter.”

“Don’t lie, Reama.” Another one of the fans, a petite white woman in a Michigan hoodie, offers a snort of derision. “You shouldn’t trick the poor girl into being a source for one of your exposés.”

Reama purses her lips into a hard line, her thick, natural eyebrows arching. “I mean, of course we were aware that your mother had a child. But to think that you’re seventeen and could give even the best Melinda cosplayer a run for their money. The boards have so many questions about where your mother disappeared to all those years, the life you’ve had.”