"Thanks for the dinner. It was—" Jake stopped by my front door and made a chef's kiss gesture. "Good night."
Bree smiled. "Good night."
"Goodbye! Don't come back!" I waved at Jake and gave him my widest grin before slamming the door closed.
"I definitely will!" Jake's voice trembled with laughter.
"Ugh. Can you believe that guy?" I stomped toward the kitchen and picked up my phone from the counter. "He has absolutely no shame whatsoever."
Bree let out a tiny chuckle.
"What?" I frowned.
"I just find it funny how you're acting all hostile toward him when thirteen years ago, you always begged Mom to let you fly to Boston to visit him every time he was hospitalized."
Heat crept up my cheeks. "First of all, I was nine. I was being silly." I spun around and strode into the living room. "And second, he was dying. I was being a good friend. And third? He wasn't the spoiled kid who runs away from home to join the circus and regularly steals food from poor people like us."
"We're not that poor."
"We're poorer than him," I retorted, and Bree's lips curved to one side in agreement.
I grabbed the TV remote and flopped onto the sofa. I was about to turn on the TV when my phone dinged.
There was a new notification from TweetyGram.
@PrincessTortieCafferty has requested to follow you
I smiled when I saw the cat's profile picture; a cute photo of her wearing a lovely tiara with pink gems. A quick visit to her profile page confirmed my earlier guess: with a well-deserved 1.1 million followers, Princess Tortie was indeed TweetyFamous.
All the photos on her page were the very definition of cuteness overload, from her innocent expression to her various costumes—all of which she seemed to enjoy wearing.
As I scrolled through her posts, another notification arrived.
@CrazyCatDaddy has requested to follow you
My body shook with laughter when I saw Jake's profile picture: a selfie of him photobombed by his furbaby.
I accepted Princess Tortie and his crazy cat daddy's follow request and followed them back.
As I visited Jake's profile page, Bree took a seat next to me. "Found anything interesting to write about already?"
"Nah. It's just Goldilocks and his cat." I hit the back button, returning to my notification page. The smile on my face faltered when I saw the unanswered follow request.
@NatalieWinters has requested to follow you
A part of me wanted to know how my former best friend was doing and maybe reconnect with her. Yet something stopped me from accepting the request.
"Nat sent me a follow request," I said.
Bree's eyebrow tipped up. "Oh?"
"I haven't accepted it though."
"Why not? She's your friend."
"More like was. I haven't talked to her in years, and I . . ."
My eyes shifted between Nat's profile picture and my profile picture on the far right of the toolbar at the bottom of the screen. With her long tresses styled in Classic Hollywood waves and her natural beauty enhanced with soft-glam makeup, Nat was red-carpet ready in the glamorous portrait.
Meanwhile, I looked like an ordinary girl next door.
A cute one, but still.
Something stirred within me at the comparison, and a foreign creature emerged from the darkest part of my mind. The creature bore an uncanny resemblance to me, except for her bright bottle-green eyes. As her blood-red lips stretched into an eerie grin, she reminded me of a life I could've lived.
How I could've been a beloved TV star like Nat.
How I could've had 12.5 million followers on TweetyGram like Nat.
How I could've lived a whole different life if only that May accident had never happened.
No, no, no. There's no use dwelling on what could've been, Lindsey. Focus on the present. Focus on the present.
I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath, and released it in a sigh. "I guess I just don't want her to see how terrible my life is when her life is so," I narrowed my eyes and joked, "TweetyGrammable."
Bree chuckled. "Our lives aren't so bad."
"I know, and I'm grateful for what we have. It's just that we're not Aubrey and Lindsey Darling, daughters of a beloved soap opera star anymore. We're Aubrey and Lindsey Darling, daughters of an alleged criminal. And she's Natalie Winters, star of Malibu, 90265. I don't belong in her world anymore. She's a superstar, and I'm just an ordinary person."
Bree pulled her mouth into a line. "You don't have to accept her follow request if you don't want to. But the way I see it, you can learn a thing or two about her impostor from her. You are going to write about Faux Natalie Winters, right?"
I sucked in an exaggerated gasp. "You were eavesdropping on Goldilocks and me?"
"I wouldn't call it eavesdropping. You two had the conversation in the kitchen—which we share—and I happen to have an excellent hearing. If you don't want me listening in on your conversation, then next time you should have it in your bedroom."
I scowled at her. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Bree's flat expression made it hard for me to tell if she was joking or serious.
I clicked my tongue and redirected the conversation. "Do you think it's okay if I asked Nat about her wolf? I haven't talked to her in years, and the last time I did, I kept cooking up excuses every time she invited me to hang out. If I contact her for the article now, it feels like I'm just using her as a means to an end."
Bree didn't answer right away. "Think of it like this. If you write that article, you'll be doing everyone a huge favor. You might get your dream job. People would be aware of social media impostors—"
"Wolves," I corrected her.
"Wolves." She nodded. "As for Nat, every publicity is good publicity for celebrities, remember?" She stood up and gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Just think about it."
As Bree walked back into the kitchen to continue her experiment, I stared at Nat's follow request, weighing my options.
Bree made a good point. Every publicity is good publicity for celebrities. Plus, Nat wouldn't want some creep impersonating her online and getting away with scamming her fans out of their money, so I could be doing her a favor too.
Right. You're not selfish for doing this, Lindsey.
With a determined breath, I tapped the accept button and followed her back.
Seconds later, a speech bubble with the number 1 appeared on the envelope icon at the top right of the app.
There was a new message from Nat.
Hey, is this Lindsey Darling? Rietveld-Beaumont Academy Class of '13?
I couldn't afford to go to the expensive private school anymore after the May accident. But if things hadn't gone south, I would've been a part of Rietveld-Beaumont Academy's Class of '13.
Yep. Hey, Nat.
I cringed at my reply. It sounded weird, and Nat seemed to agree with me.
Hmm.
Prove to me that you really are Lindsey and not some TweetyWolf.
Suspicion seeped into my mind. The Nat I knew had been rather credulous, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was talking to the real Nat.
How do I know you're not some TweetyWolf?
My account is official. See that pink tick next to my name?
There was, indeed, a pink tick next to Nat's username. But it wasn't enough to convince me.
Yeah, but most celebs don't run their own account.
How do I know you're not just someone from Nat's PR team?
She didn't respond right away, and I began to wonder if the person I was talking to was really a wolf. Hmm. Is this how they tricked Jake's sister? Could someone from Nat's PR team impersonate her?
So how do we make sure the other person isn't a TweetyWolf then?
I bit my nail, wondering the same thing. An idea then popped into my head.
How about this?
I'll ask one question only the real Nat knows the answer to and vice versa.
We keep going until we're sure the other person isn't a wolf.
There was another pause.
'kay. You go first.
There are lots of things about me and my past that only a handful of people know, but I decided to begin with the most basic one.
Alright. Sixth grade.
We sneaked out of school to go to Target to buy an exclusive, new-released album.
What album was it?
Her answer came as fast as lightning.
My Life 2.0 by Justice Beaver.
We were grounded because you stupidly bragged about it on your blog the next day.
True, Mom had grounded me after she'd read my post online (although in my defense, I had no idea she had been following my blog under a fake name). But I hadn't been the only one who had made a silly mistake.
I wasn't the one who brought the CD to school and bragged to everyone about it.
Ugh. Fine.
I guess we were both stupid.
I chuckled.
Your turn.
My whole life, I only got detention once. What did I get it for?
Snowbear ate your homework.
The teachers didn't believe you and sent you to detention for lying.
Yep!
Still not convinced you're the real Lindsey though.
I sat cross-legged on the sofa with my elbows propped on my knees. As I twisted my hair around my finger, an unpleasant memory flowed back to me.
Alright.
Cinnamon Raisin Arts Camp, summer of '06.
What did I do to Charity Mayberry and why?
The typing ellipses blinked for a while.
You drew cat whiskers and devil's horns with a permanent marker on her face because she put neon-green dye in your shampoo.
I shouldn't have pulled that revenge prank on that she-devil. It was childish. But in my defense, Charity Mayberry turned me into Medusa. Although green was my color, neon green definitely wasn't. I glowed in the dark, for crying out loud!
I spent the rest of my summer vacation trying to get rid of the green dye to no avail, so I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy seeing Charity crying her eyes out that day.
True. Your turn.
Hmm . . .
Speaking of Charity Mayberry, what did I do to her after she stole my boyfriend in 8th grade?
You put spiders in her locker.
That two-faced backstabber ripped off her hair extension when one of the spiders jumped onto her head.
Side note, it was my idea to prank that devil. I even provided the spiders.
A proud smirk tugged at my lips at the memory.
Convinced yet?
Well . . . almost.
I had a feeling Nat just enjoyed this trip down memory lane too much to stop. But I played along.
Fine, whatever. My turn.
I glanced around me, searching for any ideas for my next question. My gaze fell on the messenger bag hanging on a hook near the front door. A cat keychain dangled from the front zipper. Some of the paint had been scraped off with everyday wear, but it remained one of my most precious possessions.
Seventh grade.
Charity Mayberry stole my keychain and threw it into a dumpster.
What did I do?
Easy peasy! You dived into the dumpster to search for it!
And why did I do that?
Hey, that's two questions!
But I'll answer it because I'm being generous.
You did it because it was a present from a pen pal of yours.
Don't ask me his name because you know I'm terrible with names.
I sent her a hand-clapping emoji.
Bravo.
Merci.
Now, during Charity's 13th birthday party, what did we do that we promised to never ever tell any living soul?
Embarrassment still heated my cheeks when I remember what we did.
I distracted Justice Beaver while you stole his half-eaten sandwich.
Yes!
I still can't believe we did that!
Why didn't we just act like normal fans and ask for his autograph instead?
Well, once a smoothie . . .
Always a smoothie!
Only the members of The Cuties Smoothies—our band—knew our slogans. It was our secret codeword, and the fact that she knew it convinced me that she was the real Natalie Winters.
Lindsey! I miss you!
If we'd met in person, she would've given me one of her bear hugs for sure; and it brought a smile to my face.
I miss you too.
Sorry about the identity check. You can't be too careful in TG. This place is packed with wolves.
It's fine. I'd do the same if I were you.
The mention of TweetyWolves reminded me of my mission. A part of me wanted to question her about it right away, but I decided to keep the conversation casual.
Btw, whatever happened to that sandwich?
You don't still keep it, do you?
Eww, no.
Snowbear stole it from my refrigerator and ate it.
He got severe diarrhea after that.
I burst into laughter, loud enough to attract Bree's attention. I flashed her an apologetic grin and continued texting Nat.
He just eats everything, doesn't he?
Yep. He seriously needs a therapist.
And he's not the only one.
My new rescue, Cocobear, has the exact same problem.
The other day, Almond left them alone for just a couple of minutes, and guess what they did.
Even in Hollywood—where celebrities love giving their children weird names—I'd only met one person named Almond. And her real name wasn't even Almond. The little girl used to live in Nat's house and follow Nat and me around while her parents were working for Nat's family.
Wait, wait, wait.
Almond as in Mr. and Mrs. Monday's daughter?
Yeah. She's been my dog sitter for years.
My hideous doppelganger peeked from the dark jungle in my head again, pointing out the stark difference between my life and Nat's.
Nat's life was perfect. She had the perfect job, the perfect hair, and the perfect dogs. She even had a dog sitter. Meanwhile, my chance of getting hired as a full-time journalist was near zero, I could only go to the hairdresser once a year because I was on a tight budget, and I couldn't afford a pet let alone a dog sitter.
An awful feeling began to slither through my veins like a venomous serpent, but I suppressed it.
Oh. So what happened?
So, Almond had to go to the restroom, and she left Snowbear and Cocobear alone for just a few minutes. And guess what?
There was a short pause before another message popped up on my screen.
They chewed my script.
No way.
Yes, way!
Seriously, I have no idea why my dogs are always obsessed with eating everything.
I'm telling you, I love those two with all my heart, but they can be a real nuisance sometimes.
I chortled.
The downsides of being a pet mom.
Totally.
A few seconds passed without a new message from her, and I decided it was time to find out more about the TweetyWolf who scammed her fans.
Btw, I heard someone impersonated you and scammed your fans.
Yeah, it's a nightmare.
I can't believe the police haven't caught them. And I can't believe my agency isn't doing anything either!
That creep has been terrorizing my fans for weeks! Ugh!
A train of questions swirled inside my head. Nat had been famous ever since Malibu, 90265 first aired seven years ago. Why did the wolf start scamming her fans now? What changed? Was it simply because the culprit found a new window of opportunity? Or was there something else?
My curiosity was piqued. But before I could ask her any more questions, Nat changed the subject.
Enough about me, though.
How've you been?
Pretty good.
I just graduated college last month, and I'm currently working as an intern at the L.A. Gazette.
Wow. The L.A. Gazette, huh?
Yep.
A proud smile spread over my face, but it disappeared when I read Nat's response.
Wait.
Are you like a paparazza now?
You're not trying to diss me in the newspaper, are you?
I glowered at my phone. Like I'd ever be one of those lowlifes who ruined my family's life.
No, of course not.
I'm planning on writing a piece about the creep that impersonated you though.
Ooh. So you're like a detective then?
Her response grated on my nerves.
You do know the L.A. Gazette is a newspaper, right?
I'm an investigative journalist, Nat. Not a detective.
A few seconds passed before she replied.
Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
My point is, you are going to find out who the Malibu Wolf is, right? Just like you found out who ruined my seventh-grade science project?
Hmm. The Malibu Wolf, huh? The name caught my attention, but I focused on clearing things up first.
Honestly, finding an online scammer sounds more like work for the Feds.
I'm just writing the article to hopefully stop people from falling into this wolf's trap.
She didn't answer right away, probably still trying to understand what I was saying.
To-may-to, to-mah-to.
Laughter bubbled up my throat, but it died before it reached the surface.
Hey! Is that why you finally return my messages? Because you want to ask me about the Malibu Wolf?
Shoot. I swallowed the constriction in my throat.
No, of course, not!
Oh, please.
You haven't returned my emails in forever, changed your phone number, and now you suddenly join TG and DM me back?
Guilt rushed through me, and I shot her a reply.
I've been wanting to contact you for a while. I was just busy.
I wasn't lying. There had been days when I wanted to call her and my old bandmates but didn't. Nevertheless, Nat didn't seem to believe me. She sent me an angry emoji instead, which worsened my guilt.
Alright, fine.
It's one of the reasons I DM you back, but that's not all.
I miss my BFF.
I chewed my nails, waiting.
Right back at ya.
So, tell me, what can I do to help?
Her text surprised me.
You're not mad at me?
A little. But you can make it up to me by finding out who The Malibu Wolf is.
Honestly, there's nothing I want more than to see that creep behind bars. So you're doing me a huge favor, really.
I blew out a breath of relief.
Alright then. What can you tell me about the Malibu Wolf?
Their MO, their victims, anything.
Honestly?
Three seconds passed before another message arrived.
I know absolutely nothing about them.
I slumped in my seat. Alright, calm down, Lindsey. Calm down.
Why did you call them The Malibu Wolf anyway?
That's just what my fans call them.
No idea why.
My head started to pound with frustration, but then I remembered the question I wanted to ask her earlier.
Hey, did anything specific happen over the past few weeks?
Notice anything out of the ordinary?
Or meet someone new?
Hmm . . .
Bev died of a heart attack two months ago.
I assumed the woman she was talking about was Beverly Barber, the head of the talent agency she—and at one point I—was signed to.
After Bev died, BTA shut down, so I had to move to a new agency after that.
A new agency, huh?
The thought that someone from her new agency was the Malibu Wolf crossed my mind. Maybe it was part of a sick plan to boost Nat's popularity or to cement a point that Nat was famous enough to be impersonated online.
It was a wild guess. A stab in the dark. But the possibility, however small, was there.
Oh!
Some of the Malibu Wolf's victims left some comments on my TG.
I can give you their usernames, but I'll need some time to look for them.
That'd be awesome. Thanks.
Hey, I have to be on the set in about thirty seconds. Talk to you later?
Can't wait.
Just as I was about to close the app, my mind reminded me of my half-baked hypothesis. If this was truly an inside job, then it'd be best to stay under the radar.
Oh, and Nat?
Yeah?
Don't tell anyone I'm working on this case, will you?
Ooh. Mission Impossible style. Got it.
I locked my phone and sank back against the cushion.
I wasn't sure if I could catch this so-called Malibu Wolf. But if I wanted to have a shot at it, then the first thing I needed to do was to learn more about them by talking to the victims.
Unfortunately, there was only one victim I knew of.
I guess it's time to call a truce with Goldilocks.
Author's Note:
So, thoughts about Nat?
As always, if you enjoyed this chapter, please show some support by voting and/or leaving comments. Thank you for reading!