“And then,” Cynthia continues, “over the next week, we start to notice this awful smell coming from her room. Like, really, really bad. Like something rotting in there. I was convinced she murdered the guy and he was rotting in her room.”

“He totally wasn’t.”

“He was!”

If I were a neutral third party hearing this story, I would have said they were being ridiculous. But knowing what I know now about Monica, I bet she killed the poor guy. He’s probably at the bottom of the Hudson River.

“We tried to look for him in the papers,” Cynthia says. “But we didn’t know his name, so… you know, we couldn’t. But I’m sure she must have killed him.”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “She was nuts but she wasn’t a murderer.”

“Yeah, well, what about that stake we found under her bed?” Cynthia turns back to me. “After she moved out, I found this broomstick she’d whittled into a stake hidden under her bed. I swear, she was planning to impale both of us. We’re lucky to be alive.”

I chew on my lip, trying to decide if this is enough. Yes, it makes Monica sound loony, but it’s nothing definitive. I don’t know if these two flaky girls will be enough to convince Sam of anything. And that’s the point of being here—to get him on my side.

“Oh, and the worst part,” Cynthia says, “was Monica’s mother. Oh my God, that lady was so creepy. And she was here all the freaking time.”

“Yeah, she was the worst!” Ellie agrees. “Cyn, did I tell you about that night I left my room to get some water, and Monica’s mother was just… like, standing in front of my door. It was two in the morning!”

“She was a good cook though,” Cynthia says. “Did you ever try her brownies?”

“Um, no. I wouldn’t eat anything that woman cooked! It was probably spiked with, like, cyanide!”

My head is spinning. I talked to a woman on the phone named Jean Johnson, who claimed to be Monica’s mother. But I suspect Jean Johnson was just as fake as Chelsea Williams. “So Monica’s mother didn’t live in Indiana?”

“God, I wish,” Ellie laughs. “Monica was originally from Boston, but her family moved to the city, and they have a place uptown. Or at least, they did back then.”

Monica’s mother. Her real mother—not that phony I talked to last year, who probably had been reimbursed a couple of hundred bucks. I bet whatever her mother has to tell me will be a lot more convincing than the word of these two young girls.

“By any chance,” I say, “do you have her parents’ phone number?”

“No,” Cynthia says. My heart sinks. “But I have their address. We had to forward Monica’s mail there for a while.”

Well, that would work.

Chapter 34