“The person you want to look into is Reama Ayad. She was on the tour with us. Tall, dark hair, thinks it’s the fifties. Obsessed with the books and every detail in them. If anyone could take it too far, blur the line between reality and fiction, it’s her. Find out if she skipped last night’s ball, too. Went to the school instead.”

Like you, I think. But then Chris blanches, staring over my shoulder. I whip around, expecting the looming figure of Reama, but it’s the diminutive Deputy Shields in the doorway.

“Mr. Wang, will you come with me?”

Her eyes flit over to me and Ben, drawing a frown. Chris audibly gulps before hupping to, though not without dropping his manuscript in my lap before I can protest or shove it back at him. And then my phone buzzes. Another text from Morgan.

We need to talk. In person. I’m at Quinn’s. Can you come?

I show Ben the text, and we share a nod, rising to leave. The deranged-fan angle may still have legs, but Chris’s tip about Reama will have to wait. At least Quinn’s is close.

Deputy Shields is loitering outside, nose pinched with disdain. Sea salt and must cling to the air of the narrow hallway. I notice the nearby bathrooms and assume Chris is inside.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Deputy Shields squares her shoulders, affects a power pose.

“You moonlighting with con security?” Ben asks, making a show of looking for her nonexistent con badge.

“Why were you talking to him?” she persists, ignoring Ben, lasering in on me.

“Ben and I were just passing through.”

“Well, keep going. This is official police business, and witness tampering is a crime.”

She’s mostly bravado, her authority undermined by the scant few years separating us.

And yet…witness tampering sounds not good.

We’ll back off. For now.

Next time I’ll need to be more careful. Because I’m only getting started.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Quinn’s is crowded. Amber’s mom is on shift, flying between stuffed booths, cluttered four-tops, and the main counter. A party of five at the empty hostess counter glares at a solitary figure monopolizing a corner booth: Morgan.

We join Morgan at the table, where she is drowning herself in a milkshake. Bold for breakfast, I think, until I check my phone and discover it’s after eleven. I resist the urge to order more coffee and instead help myself to a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

“You okay, Morgan?”

Morgan rakes her gaze up from the frozen-strawberry confection. If she’s surprised to see Ben here, she doesn’t say. Instead, she shrugs.

“Sorry for all the texts last night,” she says to me. “I was hoping someone would be awake. I kept having nightmares.”

The nightmares won’t stop. But now’s not the time to tell her that.