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their absent mothers.
    But not in this universe , I wanted to tell her. Nisha Banerjee and Sutton Mercer were sworn enemies and always would be. If Nisha hadn’t had a solid alibi for the night of my murder—she’d had the entire tennis team over at her house for a sleepover—she would have been at the top of my suspect list.
    Emma grabbed her gym bag and made her way inside the school. Wheeler’s locker room smelled like old socks and strawberry-scented body spray. A shower head dripped in the corner, and a flyer for intramural water polo hung limply on the cinderblock wall. Emma crumpled her sweaty white socks into her gym bag, pulled her tennis uniform over her head, and changed into Sutton’s pink ballet flats, denim shorts, and V-neck tee. As she walked toward the sinks, the muscles along the backs of her thighs protested loudly, and she winced. She had eight more tennis matches to go before the end of the season. She’d probably have to get thigh replacements after that.
    As she turned the corner, she saw girls in swim caps printed with HOLLIER SWIM TEAM. The room was filled with steam, and shower taps whooshed. Emma caught snippets of conversation: about someone’s butterfly splits, and then about some hot Wheeler swimmer named Devon. When she heard the name Thayer Vega , the hair rose on the back of her neck. She inched toward the showers.
    “And you just know Sutton Mercer had something to do with it,” a girl chirped.
    “Doesn’t she always?” said another, her voice raspier than the first.
    “It’s unreal how Thayer went to her house after everyone says she put his life in danger. I mean, what’s that guy thinking getting involved with her again?”
    A prickly feeling crawled along Emma’s body. Sutton had put Thayer’s life in danger? Suddenly, she remembered something Ethan had told her on Friday, right before they kissed: There was a rumor that Sutton had almost killed someone with her car. She pictured Thayer’s exaggerated limp as he ran from the Mercers’ house. Was it possible?
    Sutton’s iPhone buzzed, and Emma scrambled to answer it. She ducked into a bathroom stall so that the swimmers wouldn’t see her spying and checked the screen. It was an unknown number with a 520 area code. “Hello?” she whispered.
    “Sutton?” a low voice grumbled. “This is Detective Quinlan.”
    She clenched the phone tighter, her heart lurching. Emma had grown up fearing the police. Becky had had some run-ins with them, and Emma had always worried the cops would throw her in jail, too, by association. “Yes?” she squeaked.
    “I need you to come to the station to answer some questions,” Quinlan barked.
    “About… what?”
    “Just come.”
    Emma couldn’t exactly say no to the police. Sighing, she said she’d be there soon. Then she pocketed the phone and pushed out of the changing room into Wheeler’s marble halls. There was a long line of lockers on the far wall, many of them decorated with stickers, miniature pom-poms, and graffiti that said things like GO WHEELER or ENGLISH SUCKS or JANE IS A HO. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through an open window and cast rectangles of gold onto the cornflower-blue walls.
    Emma looked at her phone again. The police station was right next to Hollier High, five miles away. How was she going to get there? Laurel still wasn’t talking to her, and she’d no doubt report back to the Mercers that Sutton was in trouble again. The questioning could have something to do with Thayer, which meant she couldn’t call Madeline. Charlotte was still finishing up her tennis match, and Ethan was taking his mom to the doctor. The Twitter Twins were the only option left.
    Emma scrolled through Sutton’s iPhone and found Lili’s number.
    “Of course I’ll drive you,” Lili said when she answered and Emma explained her plight. “What are friends for? Gabby and I are on our way!”
    In minutes, the Twitter Twins’ shiny white SUV pulled up to the curb. Lili sat in