With lines drawn connecting it like a spider’s web to several images: the mayor, Morgan, Luke. A party at Luke’s house may be too good to pass up. A chance to prod everyone about their whereabouts when Natalie was killed. Suss out motives.

Bronte either senses my hesitation or her default setting is peacemaker. “It’s not exclusive. Knowing Luke, he invited Caleb, too. The more the merrier. We’ll go from my house.”

And I realize we’ve wandered far afield of Maura’s Victorian at this point, and we must be nearly to Bronte’s. The street is unfamiliar to me, with cracked sidewalk slabs and straw-colored, sunbaked lawns running up to boxy ranches begging for upkeep. Bronte and Amber head up the driveway of one of them, bypassing the front walkway, to lead me through a carport and in through the side kitchen door. The inside is dated but well loved, the ancient cabinets freshly painted a soothing sage color, the fridge boasting old report cards and childish artwork. It’s a house you can’t help but love and feel loved in. Amber helps herself to a can of soda from the fridge, but before she can even offer me one, a high-pitched honk comes from outside. Morgan’s here.

We pile into her hand-me-down but lovingly maintained VW Golf (the Obama/Biden bumper sticker gives a clue to the car’s age). Bronte and Amber claim the back seat, so I’ve got shotgun with Morgan. She raises an eyebrow as I slide into the front. It smells like cherries, and Taylor Swift blasts on the stereo.

“Thanks for coming with me, guys.” Morgan sniffs. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

I try to assess whether it’s a performance. Morgan is an actress. But so was Natalie.

“Where does Luke live?” I ask as we fly past everything familiar, heading away from town, merging onto the 1. The sun sets in glorious peach and purple streaks behind the line of the coast and the rising tree line.

“Rinaldi Wines,” all three girls sing. It must be a television jingle, a group in-joke I’m missing. But that’s the last semblance of humor in the car. Morgan’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, as on edge now as she was this morning. Amber and Bronte chat in low voices in the back seat.

My phone buzzes with a text. Confetti explodes in my chest when I see it’s from Ben.

Finished with Maura. Hang out tonight? You, me, hours of surveillance footage?

And immediately my insides deflate. I completely forgot about our plans.

Hey sorry can’t. Going to Luke’s with Bronte, Amber, and Morgan. Tomorrow?

Wow, am I dating a popular girl?

Yes so better try and keep up

I’m drawn back to the Photos app. Back to that police board and what it has to say about my company for the evening.