“What do you think, Sutton?” Gabby asked. Emma looked up sharply. As always, the Twitter Twins’ wardrobes were in perfect contrast. Gabby wore a simple sheath dress and pearl studs in her ears, her lipstick a carefully lined red. Lili, on the other hand, wore what looked like a black thrift-store tutu and a pair of knee-high combat boots, a small veil pinned into her hair.

“Yeah, it seemed like you guys were getting close lately. Did she seem sad?” Lili asked.

“Does it really matter?” Emma said, her voice breaking. “She’s gone. The ‘why’ doesn’t change that.”

The girls fell silent. Across the lawn, Emma watched as the funeral officiant leaned over to talk to Dr. Banerjee, who hadn’t moved from his seat, a faraway look on his face. Emma had seen the doctor several weeks before, when he had treated her mother. He’d been patient and kind, even when Becky had been violent. Now his worst nightmare was coming true—and so soon on the heels of his wife’s death.

“Excuse me,” she told her friends, and walked around the now-empty chairs toward where he sat.

People nodded at her as she passed. Coach Maggie stood with a group of tennis players, looking shocked and heartbroken. Clara was with them, tears running down her cheeks.

The officiant hugged Dr. Banerjee one last time, then joined the crowd, leaving him alone. Emma hesitated. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was for his loss and that Nisha had become a good friend to her. But more than that, she wanted to find out what he thought about Nisha’s death—and where his daughter had been before she died.

Before she could decide what to say, someone else sat down next to Dr. Banerjee. Her body tensed as she recognized Detective Quinlan in ceremonial dress blues, his hat in his hands. Quinlan was hardly a fan of Sutton Mercer—he had a file three inches thick on Sutton’s Lying Game exploits, and he had arrested Emma for shoplifting two months earlier. She instinctively ducked behind a headstone a few feet away.

Quinlan’s voice was a low, sympathetic rumble. Leaning back against the cool marble, Emma strained her ears to hear what he was saying. She caught “so sorry” and “tragic” and was about to back away from the two men when the word “autopsy” drifted to her.

Dr. Banerjee shook his head violently at whatever Quinlan had just said.

“Look, Sanjay.” Quinlan’s voice was patient but firm. “There weren’t any signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds, no bruises, no handprints. It was just an accident.”