“Found it!” I right the folders on the desk and hop up, phone thrust forward triumphantly. Mustache Deputy does not appear amused. “Slippery fingers, whoops. Sorry for messing up your desk.” I talk so fast he’s unable to get a word in before I dart around him and power walk toward reception. In my periphery, I see Maura’s fans being led into individual interview rooms.

Amber stops me at the front desk, with arms crossed over her chest and a calling-bullshit expression.

“I admire your gumption, but that was stupid,” she says. “Deputy Rodriguez is going to tell my dad.”

“I lost my phone.” I shrug.

Amber hums, not believing my lie. “Like my dad said, they’re professionals. You should leave this to them.”

“You were listening at the door!” I point at her, my own gotcha moment.

“And you were taking pictures of the murder board. Which was completely unnecessary. I got photos hours ago on my DSLR. I can send them to you.” She produces a camera from under the reception desk and waggles it in my direction.

“Now who’s leaving it to the professionals?”

“Technically, I work here.” She holds a beat. “But I’m not interrogating people at fan conventions and entertaining Morgan’s wild theories.”

“You’re the third person to tell me Morgan can’t be taken seriously. Care to enlighten me?”

Amber tucks her camera into her backpack, then swings it over her shoulder. “It’s not deep. She’s a drama llama. In ninth grade, she was convinced Seaview had a serial killer, and spent my entire birthday party making her nonsensical case to my dad. She’s no longer invited to our house, and he’s been wary ever since. And Morgan’s always been sensitive about Natalie.” She turns off the desktop computer, indicates I should follow her out. Guess we’re leaving together.

“I thought they were best friends.” Though how Natalie left Morgan out in the cold during Spirit Week dances through my mind.

“Natalie wasn’t always easy to be best friends with,” Amber says ominously, pushing open the front door.

We burst out into crisp, salty air. I keep forgetting we’re only blocks from the ocean. I peer up at the sky, which is a stony gray. I’ve left perpetual sunshine for unrelenting gloom. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

“Cecelia! I’ve been so worried about you.” Bronte bounds up to us, practically tackle-hugging me, solid and strong. I angle into her embrace. “I texted you this morning but didn’t hear back. Are you okay?”

Amber snorts. “More than okay. She’s on the case.”

“What does that mean?” Bronte looks to me, and all I can do is push down my burning shame with a shrug.

“She’s meddling in my dad’s investigation,” Amber says.

“But you do that all the time,” Bronte counters. I could kiss her if she weren’t, well, Amber’s girlfriend.

“I mean, sure, yes,” Amber stammers. “But I’m more subtle about it. I caught her photographing the leads board. And she’s been listening to Morgan.”