TweetyGram

10 - #WolfTheWolf

The security guard rushed to stop her from entering the building, grabbing her around the waist from behind. But she elbowed him in the stomach with enough force to send him a few steps backward.

The commotion attracted the attention of other security guards in the studio's lot. Two more security guards tried to catch Trish, yet she persisted, going around and around in circles to evade them.

It took about twenty seconds—and the help of three more security guards—for the guards to finally restrain her.

"Let me go!" She punched and kicked the air like a child on a tantrum as one of the guards carried her out of the premises. "Do you know who I am? I'm Trish Nash! My daddy's Cash Nash, and he's going to sue this place! All of you are going to get fired—no. All of you are going to end up in jail! Do you hear me? Let me go! Let me go! Let me—"

The video ended abruptly.

"Now that was embarrassing." Jake cackled with laughter, his eyes lighting up with mirth.

Having been bullied in his childhood, Jake detested arrogant and narcissistic people like Trish Nash, and, like me, he enjoyed seeing them humiliate themselves.

"What makes you think she got wolved by the same wolf that wolved my sister though?" As soon as the words finished spilling from his mouth, he jerked his head back in surprise. "Wow, that's a lot of wolf in a sentence."

I chuckled. "Trish Nash fits the Malibu Wolf's preferred victim profile to a tee. It's just a hunch, but based on the timeline, she might be the Malibu Wolf's first victim."

"Ah." He shifted his gaze back to the board. The corners of his mouth curved downward as he narrowed his eyes at the group photo at the top right of the board, probably because twenty-seven of the thirty-two faces were crossed out in red ink.

Cautiously, he turned his head in my direction. "You haven't killed all these people, have you?"

I gave him the side-eye. "That's my suspect pool, you idiot."

"Hmm?"

"One of the victims told me the Wolf uploaded this picture." I tapped my knuckle against the group photo on the board. "It was taken at Cinnamon Raisin Arts Camp in the summer of 2006. I called the camp yesterday and asked if they still had the photo, but as it turns out, their copy of the photo—along with most of their documents at that time—was destroyed in a fire after some campers lit some fireworks and accidentally burned the office building."

Jake clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Teenagers."

"Yep. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, only those pictured in the photo have it."

"So you think someone in that photo"—he glanced at the board—"might be the Malibu Wolf."

"Exactly."

He crossed his arms and observed the picture on the board. "But there's still a chance that one of these people showed the photo to their friends, right? I mean, I know lots of people who wouldn't shut up if they went to camp with a celebrity."

"Yeah. My theory's not perfect. But I scoured TweetyGram for the picture, and so far, I haven't found anything yet."

"Hmm . . ." He pursed his lips and stroked his chin. "You should check if any of these people work on the set of Malibu, or at least know someone who does."

"Way ahead of you. Out of those thirty-two people, only seventeen attended Rietveld-Beaumont Academy, and—"

He swiveled his head in my direction. "Isn't that your old school?"