"I can't believe you're friends with the real Natalie Winters." Fiona Sandoval, my fellow intern, sighed dreamily. "That is so awesome."
The break room had been empty when I came here earlier. But Fiona walked in while I was checking my TweetyGram inbox for the victim list—which I still hadn't received yet. The curly-haired brunette asked me what my username was, followed my account, and noticed a certain actress's name in my follower list.
Ten minutes had passed since she found out the real Natalie Winters followed me on TweetyGram, and she hadn't stopped marveling about it.
Frankly, it was starting to get annoying. So I decided to tease her a little.
"We're not just friends. We're best friends. Since we were six. We went to school together, we went to summer camp together, and we were in a band together."
Fiona gasped. "You're so lucky!"
I buried my mouth in my coffee, struggling to maintain the polite smile on my face. What is so amazing about being friends with a TV star? It's not like I'm friends with a talking dog, or a ghost, or an alien.
"So are you friends with Cher and Riri too?" Fiona asked, her eyes glittering behind her cat-eye glasses.
"I'm sorry, who?"
"Cher Quinn and Riri Richards."
I scrunched my forehead. "Who?"
"Cher Quinn and Riri Richards from A Hollywood Life? You know, the famous show on TweetyTube?"
I clicked my teeth into a tight smile and shook my head. "Sorry, I don't watch TweetyTube shows much."
"Oh. Well, they're TweetyFluencers. Riri's in charge of the pets' wardrobe in Malibu, 90265, while Cher—well, Cher's so famous the producers cast her in a special guest star role this season to boost the ratings. Rumor has it she's so good she's being promoted to series regular for the second half of this season," Fiona explained. "Anyway, Cher mentioned in an interview that she and Riri went to school with Natalie, so I figured you might know them too."
"I transferred from Rietveld-Beaumont in my sophomore year. They must've transferred to the school after that."
"Oh." There was a soft note of disappointment in her voice. "Still, I think it's awesome you're friends with Natalie Winters."
Seriously, stop. I hid my irritation behind a grin and stuffed my mouth with the granola bar I'd gotten from the vending machine earlier.
"I gotta be honest," Fiona added. "When I first saw your friend list, I thought you were wolved by the Malibu Wolf."
I sat up straight and stopped chewing instantly. "You know about the Malibu Wolf?"
"Of course. I've never been a victim myself, but I've read all about it. One of the victims was brave enough to post a warning about the wolf on IHeartMalibu.com."
"IHeartMalibu.com?"
"It's a place where Malibu fans gather to discuss the show and its cast. Well, mostly we just gossip about the drama behind the scenes." She giggled. "So, are you going to write about the Malibu Wolf?"
Fiona seemed like a sweet person, but I'd only met her yesterday. And in a world where anyone could easily snatch another's ideas and claim them as theirs, I couldn't be too careful.
"I haven't decided yet," I lied. "What about you?"
"I'm making a special TweetyGram edition crossword," she replied, her voice brimming with excitement.
Although Fiona held a bachelor's degree in English, she'd told me she wanted to be a puzzle editor. I guessed she was serious about it. And yes, I guessed I was being a little too paranoid.
"I'm writing about the effects of TweetyGram on athletes' performance." Devon Watson swaggered into the room, his dark hair slicked back in a three-inch high pompadour, probably to compensate for his below-average height.
"Who asked him?" I mouthed to Fiona, who chuckled in response.
Standing with his back to us, Devon poured coffee for himself and asked, "Did you know that athletes who spend more time on TweetyGram tend to perform worse than those who don't?"
"News to me," I answered.
"Yep," Fiona agreed.
As Devon kept talking about the negative influence TweetyGram had on athletes, my phone buzzed.
There was a new follow request on TweetyGram.
My attempt to stay anonymous on TweetyGram had failed miserably. Paris must've told everyone she knew about my account because I'd received ten new follow requests from my former classmates today. And it was only 9 a.m.
Out of curiosity, I tapped on the notification.
@QueSeraSera has requested to follow you
The user's profile picture was a snapshot of my former bandmate-slash-BFF Serafina Martin with a handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed man who was gazing at her with adoration.
Unlike Nat and Paris, Sera hadn't changed much from the last time I'd seen her, although she'd clearly upgraded her make-up skills. Shades of gold, bronze, and copper brought out the warmth in her hazel eyes, highlighted her gorgeous cheekbones, and flattered her fair olive skin. Her golden-brown hair now sported gentle caramel highlights, and it was much longer than her usual bob cut. With a carefree smile on her face, she seemed happier than ever, maybe because she had such a loving boyfriend by her side.
The two looked so perfect together. They even had matching dimples on their cheeks.
Now that is what I call lucky.
Medusa Lindsey lurked in the dark, her bottle-green eyes watching me with intent. As she crawled out of her hiding place, an awful, venomous feeling seeped into my stomach. Soon, I began to question why my love life wasn't remotely as wonderful as Sera's, why my academic life wasn't as smooth as Paris's, and why my professional life wasn't as accomplished as Nat's.
What did I do wrong?
"For what it's worth, I think you should write about The Malibu Wolf," Fiona said, snapping me out of my thoughts. "We die-hard Malibu fans need someone to voice our concerns. I'm telling you, this wolf is the worst. Not only do they exploit our love for that super-awesome TV show, but they also take advantage of our generosity and compassion for others in need."
"What do you mean?"
She leaned forward, eyes sparkling with gossip. "The victims were tricked into thinking that they were donating their money to charities. Plus, this is only speculation, but we believe it's an inside job."
My curiosity was piqued. "How come?"
"Because the wolf keeps posting photos taken in the Malibu set—which is why we call them the Malibu Wolf, by the way. And ever since a reporter sneaked into the set, leaked the identity of AJ Barker's killer back in season five, and eventually forced the writers to rewrite and reshoot the season finale, the studio has prohibited anyone other than the cast and crew—and the celebrity entourage, of course—from entering the set," she explained, speaking so fast it took me a few seconds to process everything.
Hmm. Inside job, huh?
Fiona's explanation supported my early hypothesis that someone close to Nat was the Malibu Wolf. Someone from the cast and crew of Malibu, 90265, perhaps.
"What else can you tell me about this wolf?" I asked.
"That's about it. But maybe you can spot something we missed." She pulled out her phone from her pocket, gave the screen a few taps and slides, and handed it over to me. "Here. See for yourself."
The thread on IHeartMalibu.com was titled Malibu-ers Beware! There's a Wolf Among Us!
The first post was dated two weeks ago.
LivLovesMalibu:
Hi, everyone. So, my parents told me to keep quiet about this because they're too ashamed that their daughter stupidly got scammed online. But I feel like I should warn everyone about it.
Someone who claimed to be Natalie Winters friended me on TG two weeks ago. Their username was @NataliieWinters, and they claimed that it was a secret account Natalie used for fun.
We were just chatting at first, but then they invited me to a special meet-and-greet at The Fitz Mortimer Hotel. In return, they wanted me to send them $1,000 to an account that supposedly belonged to Kids vs Cancer.
I sent them the money without thinking, and I haven't heard from them ever since.
It wasn't until I called Kids vs Cancer's hotline yesterday that I found out their account number differed from the one that the Wolf gave me.
It's a scam, people! So if you get a message from someone who claims to be Natalie, beware. It might be from the same wolf that wolved me.
The post came with a screenshot of the wolf's profile. There were only nine photos in the screenshot, but I could see why people believed it was Nat's secret TweetyGram profile. Three of the photos were candid shots of Nat on the set of Malibu, 90265: one of her laughing at the beach with her beefy co-star, another of her arguing with a red-haired woman, and another of her playing with a cute chocolate Pomeranian.
The rest of the photos, however, were very . . . intimate.
With the exception of books, the photos on the profile were things that Nat liked—strawberry smoothies, beaches, and Justice Beaver's newest album. If I hadn't known better, I could've mistaken this for Nat's real profile.
As I studied the pictures, I got the eerie feeling that whoever was behind this enjoyed being Nat.
Another theory then popped into my head: what if one of her fans is behind this? Or worse, one of her friends?
Growing up in Hollywood, I'd seen my fair share of obsessive fans. But what was even scarier than over-the-top fans were people who befriended celebrities for their own advantage. The thought that a creep was exploiting and maybe even stalking my best friend sent chills down my spine.
"Isn't there anything that you can do?" I asked. "Report the account to TweetyGram or something?"
"We've tried," Fiona answered. "When the wolf's account gets disabled by the powers that be, they simply create another account. There's just no stopping them."
"Oh." I propped my chin on my hand and scrolled through the replies.
ToriXAsh4Eva:
OMG! I feel for you, girl!
I got wolved too last week. But they told me they were raising money for Food for America.
We have a serial wolf here, people.
Dated ten days ago, it was one of five posts—and counting—from different users who claimed to be victims of the Malibu Wolf.
"So? What do you think?" Fiona asked.
"I think I can find out more about the wolf if I talk to the victims," I answered. "Do you know any of them personally?"
"I've chatted with some of them on the forum sometimes. I can try to contact them if you want."
I flicked my eyes to her. "Really?"
"Mm-hmm." Although she was too shy to say anything, there was something in her eyes that told me she wanted something in return.
Yes, like everything in life, nothing is ever free.
"That'd be awesome." I handed her phone back. "I'll get you Nat's autograph as a thank-you present."
She drew a sharp breath, her eyes sparkling with glee. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
She squealed so loud that Devon stopped his lecture and snapped his gaze to us, his forehead crumpling in confusion. "Wow, Fi. I had no idea you were such a huge fan of Luciano Rolando," Devon said, oblivious to the fact that Fiona and I had been having a whole other conversation over the past few minutes.
As I choked back a laugh, Fiona slapped a hand over her mouth.
"Oh, yeah. Of course," Fiona stammered. "Luciano Rolando is, like, the hottest soccer player ever. I follow him on TweetyGram."
"Ah." Devon nodded.
Devon was about to continue his lecture when Wyatt Summers, another fellow intern, walked into the room and stopped next to him. Standing at about six foot eight and built like a professional wrestler, Wyatt made poor Devon look like a dwarf.
"Yo, big guy." Devon tilted his head up at Wyatt, a hint of jealousy in his eyes. "What are you writing about?"
"Drug dealers."
Wyatt's answer rang a loud alarm bell in my head, along with a voice that chanted, 'Competitor alert. Competitor alert.'
I blinked. "There are drug dealers on TweetyGram?"
"From the friendly neighborhood ones to the high-class ones," Wyatt answered.
For a moment, I considered abandoning the Malibu Wolf article in favor of a drug-related piece. But I reminded myself that I shouldn't steal others' ideas.
Why couldn't I find out about the drug dealers on TweetyGram first? That's way more interesting than a random TweetyWolf.
"My friend's brother ODed on the stuff he got from a TG drug dealer last week," Wyatt explained. "I'd say I'm surprised it's not in the news yet, but—"
"Which ones of you are Lindsey Darling and Wyatt Summers?" Mr. Grant, the L.A. Gazette's crime editor, poked his head into the break room, his round glasses slipping down his nose bridge.
The middle-aged man had always had a permanent frown on his wrinkled face, which I'd like to attribute to his severely receding hairline. I mean, I would be grumpy too if I was losing two-thirds of my hair. But now he was staring at the four of us as if we'd stolen his sandwich.
I didn't, did I?
"Well?" he asked, snapping me out of my trance. "Lindsey Darling and Wyatt Summers?"
Wyatt and I slowly raised our hands.
"Come with me," Mr. Grant said, and we followed him to his office at the end of the hallway.
Contrary to his rather neat appearance, Mr. Grant's office was as disorderly as it could be. His desk was an absolute mess; stacks of paper here and there, pens and correction tape scattered around, and there was a day-old, half-eaten sandwich near the nameplate that said, Grant G. Grant. The board behind the desk was even worse. Various clippings were pinned over one another along with some sticky notes here and there, and boy, did he have the worst handwriting I'd ever seen.
"Have a seat." Mr. Grant gestured at the chairs before the desk. After Wyatt and I sat down, he continued, "I've read both of your theses, and I think you two have the potential to be great investigative journalists."
The compliment came as a surprise to both of us. All we could say was, "Thank you."
"Now." Mr. Grant folded his arms on the desk. "Are you familiar with the name Jim Pansy?"
My ears perked up. "As in the man who scammed millions out of LA socialites by pretending to be Count Claude-Henri Dieudonné Léon Félicien di Lotario from Maccheronia?"
Mr. Grant nodded. "I'm doing a piece on him, and I'm planning a visit to the prison to talk to him. If you want to, you two can come with me and maybe learn a thing or two about crime reporting."
My mouth fell open, but I managed to swallow a squeal. Keeping my poise, I replied, "I'd love to."
"Me too." The calmness in Wyatt's voice baffled me.
"Great." Mr. Grant scribbled something in his notebook. "I'll put your names on the list."
As we left Mr. Grant's office, I babbled, "Oh my gosh. I can't believe we're going to see the legendary Grant G. Grant in action. And can you believe we're going to meet Jim Pansy? Not that I'm excited to meet a criminal because that'd be super twisted. But we can seriously learn a lot from this guy—to prevent similar crimes from happening, of course."
While I struggled to keep myself from jumping up and down like a kid on her birthday, Wyatt was surprisingly quiet.
Curious, I asked, "Aren't you excited?"
"Honestly?" Wyatt scratched the back of his neck. "I'd never heard of Jim Pansy until five minutes ago. Guess I have lots of homework to do, huh?"
"Don't worry. You got this." I offered the buff man an encouraging pat on the back. "Want to talk about it over lunch?"
His shoulders relaxed, and his mouth tipped into a smile. "That'd be great. Thanks, Linds."
As I bounced to my desk, my phone buzzed. There was a new message from Jake.
Hey.
You free tonight at 7?
I leaned back in my chair, swiveling it from side to side.
Depends.
Are you planning on robbing a bakery and forcing me to be your getaway driver?
If yes, then the answer is no.
He responded right away.
Haha. Very funny.
I thought you wanted to talk to my sister?
I bolt upright in my seat and texted him back, my thumbs slamming against my phone screen.
YES.
I'M FREE.
DEFINITELY.
His response arrived seconds later.
Great. Meet me in my apartment. Don't be late.
As I locked my phone, my face stretched into a wide grin. Everything was coming up roses.
Author's Note:
So, in the next chapter, we're going to meet Jake's little sister, Kristen. It's going to be fun, so stay tuned!
As always, please vote and/or leave comments if you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading!