For the second time in twenty-four hours, I’m huddled in the Seaview High School parking lot, surrounded by law enforcement. Amber insisted we call her dad, as this was “serious shit.” She’s right. It’s why I was sure to get a photo on my phone before SRO Will trundled over and started shrieking about protocol and contaminating the scene. I keep pulling it up on my screen, eyes raking over FUCK YOU in Lady Danger red, the mashed tube of MAC lipstick placed boldly on the shelf, so Natalie would know it was personal. Fuck you. Fuck your lipstick.

Did Natalie see this before she died? Did she know someone was out for blood?

It changes everything. Confirms there was nothing accidental about her death.

“Hey. You okay?” Bronte rubs my back as we watch Amber across the parking lot, father chewing her out for even being in a position to discover key evidence. Meddling. Every so often the sheriff gestures over in my direction, fury etched across his features.

“Is she okay?”

Bronte’s mouth is a firm line.

“He can be an ass. But he’s not violent, if that’s what you mean.”

We watch the rest in silence until the sheriff storms into the athletic center and Amber approaches us in a brisk walk.

“Come on,” she says, barely pausing her step. Bronte and I hurry behind her. “I need a fuckton of cookie dough and some strong weed after that.”

“Amen,” Bronte says.

I don’t know why I’m surprised that Bronte likes to smoke, but I am. She’s so squeaky-clean. I remind myself weed is legal in California and not a big deal. Everyone probably does it. Even if I’m no expert.

“Are we going to Luke’s?” Amber asks.

“You know we don’t have to go to his place for good weed,” Bronte says.

“Yeah, but Morgan wants us there. She says she can pick us up.”

I try not to act as hurt as I am that clearly I am missing information. They notice anyway.

“Sorry. We’re so rude,” Bronte says. “You’re not on the group chat, but you’re welcome to come. Luke is having a hang at his house tonight, so we can process everything with Natalie together.”

Amber snorts. “And because Morgan’s convinced someone’s going to murder her tonight.”

“I don’t want to crash your party,” I protest. I’m not on the group chat. Not really part of the group. And yet I can’t stop thinking about the other photo on my phone. Blurry but not so much so that I can’t make out the word the cops wrote in red dry-erase marker, and circled—twice.