TweetyGram

14 - #BandMeeting

I wasn't sure how to react. Paris had a taste for gossip, which could be a double-edged sword. On one hand, she might know a thing or two about the suspects. Incriminating things, I hoped. But on the other hand, she might let slip to the suspect that I was on to them.

"Isn't this exciting? It's going to be like seventh grade all o—" Paris glanced over her shoulder as the door behind her creaked open. Panic flitted across her face when she whipped her gaze back to us. "Hold on a sec."

She turned off her camera and muted her audio.

What was that all about?

Ignoring the question in my head, I hissed at Nat, "Whatever happened to Mission Impossible?"

"Well, Paris is in Paris. She couldn't be the Wolf, so I thought a little help wouldn't hurt, right?" Nat stretched her mouth into an awkward grin.

"The Wolf could be anyone in the world, remember?"

She bit her lower lip and fidgeted in her seat. "I'm sorry. I was a little drunk when she called me last night, whining about why she was left out of our reunion. One thing led to another, and it just . . . slipped."

As guilt contorted Nat's features, I realized I was being too hard on her. "Don't worry about it. I don't think Paris is the Malibu Wolf." I tried to comfort her, but it didn't seem to be working. Her hands trembled as she brought a glass of wine to her lips, distress clear in her eyes. "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah, of course." She forced a smile. "I'm fine."

She wasn't. I knew.

As I racked my brain for a way to cheer her up, Paris rejoined the conversation. "Sorry about that. So, where are we with the investigation?"

"We have reasons to believe the Malibu Wolf works on the set of Malibu, 90265. Hence, the name," I explained.

"Hmm." Paris rubbed her chin and narrowed her eyes, nodding. "Any suspects yet?"

"It might be someone in this photo." I held up my copy of the summer camp photo in front of my laptop's camera. "The Wolf posted this on their TweetyGram page, and as far as I'm concerned, only those in the picture have this."

Paris squinted at her camera. "Oh! I remember that! From art camp, right?"

"Yeah." A note of suspicion slipped into my voice. I found it odd how Paris, who wasn't in the picture, could recognize the photo so quickly. "I'm surprised you still remember it."

"Are you kidding me? Your hair's green there, Linds."

As Paris and Nat giggled, an embarrassed flush rushed up my neck and burned my cheeks. "Right."

"I still remember Nat showing me that picture and talking about how fun the camp was. I was sooo jealous. You guys were having fun at art camp while I was stuck in summer school," Paris grumbled, "Studying math."

I chuckled. "Math can be fun too."

"Ugh." Paris curled her upper lip in disdain. "You sound like London."

Paris and her sister, London, might look a lot alike, but that was about all they had in common. Paris loved art; London thought art was a waste of time. Paris hated—and sucked at—math; London excelled at math. Paris had a quirky sense of fashion; London had no sense of fashion. And the list went on.

"So, you have, like, what? Twenty—" Paris reached behind her laptop, the rose-gold, sunglasses-wearing pineapple pendant of her necklace dangling in front of the camera. Plopping back onto her velvet yellow chair, she opened a bag of chips and shoved a handful into her mouth. "Thirty suspects there?"