"I can't believe it," I grumbled, flopping down onto the sofa. "It's been almost a week, and Nat still hasn't told me what her brilliant idea is."
"You know Nat. She always loves a good surprise." Bree emerged from her room looking like a goddess. Her soft yet glamorous makeup highlighted her best facial features, her emerald-green gown complemented her auburn hair, and her yellow-gold jewelry added a perfect sparkle to her evening attire.
"Wow. Someone's dressed to impress," I teased.
"I can't exactly go to a black-tie event full of potential investors dressed like a bag lady, can I?" she deadpanned, sweeping across the room to pick up the new stilettos she'd bought for tonight's occasion.
"Oh? Are you sure that's all? Sure you're not trying to attract the attention of a certain dashing, thirty-year-old CEO whose name rhymes with playboy?" I giggled.
Her mouth twitched, but she quickly recovered her poise. "Cut it out, Linds. My relationship with Mr. Lovejoy is strictly professional."
"If you say so," I sang.
Bree and her boss, Ryan Lovejoy, had been friends before they started working together. Although she never wanted to admit it, she'd always been attracted to him—and I was sure the feeling was mutual. Yet for some reason, those two idiots kept denying their feelings toward each other.
"How's the victim interview going?" Bree glanced at the empty portable whiteboard in the living room.
"Not good." I sank back against the cushion. "Thanks to Fiona, I've interviewed four more victims so far, but they're all saying the same thing. They think the Wolf is someone who works on the Malibu set, an expert in TweetyTune, and a really, really kind person—except that they've just run away with those poor girls' money, that is."
As the words left my lips, I realized something important.
Those poor girls, huh?
Over the past few days, I'd been wondering why my co-worker Fiona—who had commented on every single post in Malibu, 90265's TweetyGram—never got wolved. But I might've found the answer to that.
I flipped my notebook open and read my notes.
Kristen Cafferty. Age: 15. Boston, MA.
Angela Park. Age: 16. San Francisco, CA.
Mariana Hernandez. Age: 15. Greenwich, CT.
Eve Talbot. Age: 16. New York City, NY.
Olivia Walker. Age: 17. Los Angeles, CA.
The Malibu Wolf's victims might've lived in different cities, but all of them were high school students. It could be a coincidence, but my gut said there was more to it.
"I take it you found something?" Bree asked.
"Maybe. I'll know more when I talk to Olivia. I'm having a TweetyMeeting with her in"—I glanced at my watch—"twenty-five minutes."
The Olivia Walker who had informed Nat about the Malibu Wolf turned out to be the girl I'd used to tutor back when I was in college. She also happened to be the user who first posted about the Malibu Wolf on IHeartMalibu.com too. When I contacted her three days ago, she was more than happy to help me with my investigation. But since she was staying with her dad in the Hamptons for the summer holiday, we were going to do the interview via video call.
"Good luck." Bree patted me on the shoulder. "I'm gonna be home late. Don't wait up, okay?"
I sucked in a fake gasp. "You're going to stay at Ryan's place tonight?"
Her eyes almost bulged out of her head, and her face flushed bright red. "Stop it, you little—"
The knock on the door stopped Bree from beating me into a pulp. It was Ryan Lovejoy; I was sure of it.
"Not. A. Word," Bree threatened, pointing a warning finger at me.
I closed my mouth with a pop before pretending to zip my mouth shut and throw away the key.
Bree smoothed her polished curls and pulled the door open.
Ryan Lovejoy stood by the door in a snazzy charcoal-gray tuxedo that was tailored to fit his lean physique. His brown hair was slicked back, and his handsome face was covered with well-groomed scruff, perhaps to add a few years of maturity to his otherwise youthful appearance.
"Wow." He scanned Bree from head to toe, his eyes shining with adoration. "You look stunning."
"Thank you," Bree replied, a suppressed glee in her voice.
"Lindsey." Ryan waved at me, and I returned the gesture with a grin. He shifted his gaze back to Bree and offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
Bree smiled politely and tucked her hand around the crook of his arm. Before she left, she whipped her head around and shot me one last warning glare that made me flinch. Nevertheless, as soon as she closed the door, I broke into laughter, cackling like a witch.
"Alright." I sat up, laced my fingers together, and stretched my arms. "Now, Malibu Wolf. Let's see if you indeed have a type."
I picked up my phone and opened TweetyGram, intending to find the similarities between the Wolf's victims.
The first thing I saw on my news feed was a graduation photo of Almond, who'd followed me on TweetyGram right after she'd bumped into me last week. Standing next to her parents, she was beaming with pride—as she should. The girl had more honor cords draped over her white gown than any other high school graduate I'd ever seen.
Almond barely resembled herself in the picture though; her nose was thinner, her cheeks were slimmer, and her skin was as smooth as a baby's. The photo was heavily edited, perhaps by a professional. But whoever did the job needed a stern reprimand because they'd changed every one of Almond's lovable features that made her unique. They even removed the dimple on her chin, for crying out loud.
I clicked my tongue in disapproval and read the caption.
Goodbye Rietveld-Beaumont Academy. Stanford, here I come!
P.S. Special thanks to @NatalieWinters for the wonderful gifts xx
#goodbyehighschool #graduationday #bookishgram
I swiped my thumb over the screen to view the second picture. It was a photo of the gift box Nat had given her.
Almond's post garnered 13.6k likes and 105 comments. Some people congratulated her on her graduation, while some requested a book review of Red Moon. But there was one thing every comment had in common: all of them expressed their jealousy toward her close friendship with Nat.
"What is it with people and their obsession with celebrities?" I muttered before proceeding with my investigation.
The first account that I visited was Kristen's. Her last post, dated two weeks ago, was a bathroom selfie of her in a cheerleading uniform. Like Almond's earlier, Kristen's photo was also edited; albeit not as heavily.
It took me a moment to realize these teenagers' photos weren't edited by professionals—they TweetyTuned their own photos.
Something stirred within me. Being a teenager was hard enough, and I could only imagine living as a teenager in a time where fixing your so-called imperfections was only a click away. I had the urge to tell these girls that there was nothing wrong with how they looked; that they should embrace their supposed flaws instead of transforming themselves according to Hollywood's twisted beauty standards.
But then I remembered I was just a nobody.
No one was going to listen to a former child-model-slash-aspiring-actress nobody had ever heard the name of. I wasn't Natalie Winters. If I had been, then maybe I stood a chance of making this world a better place. Right now, I should stick to what I do best—investigate and write.
I inhaled a deep breath and focused my attention back on my investigation.
As I scrolled through Kristen's posts, a sense of déjà vu hit me. Kristen's life reminded me of mine before the May accident. She owned numerous designer clothes and bags, went skiing in Aspen every winter, and had been cheer captain back in middle school.
Her life was perfect.
I could sense Medusa Lindsey about to strike, but I concentrated on the task at hand and pulled up the other victims' profiles.
It was amazing how much private information these girls put on their social media. They posted just about everything. What they ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; where they went on the weekends; when they had their periods—well, only one girl posted about that. But still.
I guess this is why the Maccheronian government set the social media age limit to eighteen, huh?
The sense of déjà vu grew stronger the longer I observed the girls' posts. After a while, it dawned on me what these girls had in common: they were pretty, rich, and popular.
"Yes, finally!" I strode across the room and wrote my findings on the whiteboard.
I was about to continue my research when a glance at my watch told me it was time for my TweetyMeet with Olivia. I settled on a barstool at the kitchen island, opened my laptop, and called Olivia. A few seconds later, her face popped into view.
She wore her light-brown hair long as usual, but now she had wispy bangs covering her prominent forehead and framing her striking pale blue eyes.
"Hey, Linds," she greeted with a smile.
I returned the gesture. "Hey. How's New York?"
"Better than California. At least Dad doesn't lecture me about being wolved twenty-four-seven like Mom did."
I chuckled. "Thanks for agreeing to talk to me."
"No problem. I want to get my story out there and stop anyone else from falling victim to that creep." There was a note of anger—and frustration—in her voice when she addressed the Wolf.
"Alright. Let's start from the beginning. How did you first come in contact with the Malibu Wolf?"
"I left a comment on one of the posts in Malibu's TG account, and the Wolf DMed me, saying they appreciated my comment and wanted to be friends with me." Shame flickered in her eyes before she lowered them. "Ugh. I should've known it was a wolf after that Trish Nash thing. I feel so stupid."
A question burned on the edge of my tongue, but I focused on soothing her first. "Hey, getting wolved doesn't mean you're stupid. This wolf is just an excellent manipulator. Besides, you're one of the smartest people I've ever met."
A tiny smile tipped the corners of her mouth. "Thanks, Linds."
"Don't mention it. Who's Trish Nash, by the way?"
"She's—was a student at Rietveld-Beaumont. A year my senior. She used to be the head cheerleader before me. She got wolved by the Malibu Wolf a few weeks before I did, but the Wolf was posing as Eleanor Clarke back then. That's why I didn't suspect anything when the Wolf contacted me. I thought this was different."
"What makes you think they're the same wolf? The one who wolved you and the one who wolved her?"
She tilted her head to the side and licked her lips. "I just . . . assume they're the same person. I mean, she bragged about being friends with the real Eleanor Clarke for two weeks before the incident and showed photos of the set to her friends, so . . ."
Interesting. This was the first time I'd heard about the Malibu Wolf posing as Nat's co-star Eleanor Clarke. It could be a whole different wolf. Nevertheless, it was worth investigating.
"You mentioned something about an incident," I said. "What happened?"
She hesitated for a while, perhaps not wanting to reveal embarrassing information about her friend. "Trish . . . kinda humiliated herself online because of the Wolf. She went viral, and not in the good kind."
And the plot thickens. All of the Malibu Wolf's victims so far were only swindled out of the same amount of money—$1,000—which was already embarrassing enough. Yet none of them was publicly humiliated. I couldn't help but wonder if the Wolf had a personal vendetta against this girl. If they did, it could help me narrow down the suspect pool.
"Hey, is there any chance you can introduce me to Trish Nash?" I wondered. "It'd be great if I could interview her about the Wolf."
"I'll try. But it might take a while." Sympathy shone in Olivia's eyes when she added, "That poor girl's stuck in rehab. She couldn't even attend her graduation last week. I guess her parents were afraid she'd do something stupid again."
I narrowed my eyes. "Rehab?"
"Yeah. Her parents found out about that viral video of hers and sent her to rehab."
I wrinkled my forehead in confusion. "What for?"
With a sympathetic half-smile, she answered, "TweetyGram addiction."
I jerked my head back in surprise. TweetyGram addiction is a thing?
"Last I heard Trish didn't have any access to her phone," Olivia continued, "but I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks," I replied. "So, what else did you remember about the Malibu Wolf?"
"Well, I didn't suspect anything at first because, for the first two weeks, they never asked about my personal info, or credit card number, or any other sensitive information. We just . . . talked. Like real friends."
"What did you two talk about?"
"A lot. Boys, Hollywood, school. They know so much about RBA, and the real Natalie went to RBA too, right? So I thought, hey, this must be the real Natalie."
"Hold on." I sat up straight. "What do you mean they know so much about Rietveld-Beaumont?"
"The other day, I was furious because I got a C in art, and I kinda vented on TG. I posted a lengthy comment about Mrs. Lemmon and her—well, long story short, the Wolf replied to my story. They said some things about how Mrs. Lemmon had always been a b, even when they—I mean, Natalie went to RBA. They even mentioned that Natalie got a C in her eighth-grade art project too."
An alarm sounded in my head. How did they know that?
Even though Nat was a talented painter, she had, indeed, gotten a C in her eighth-grade art project. She was devastated when she received her grade, so much so that Paris, Sera, and I had to come over to stop her from doing anything stupid.
As far as I was concerned, Nat kept her failure a secret, and the three of us were the only ones who knew about Nat's grade. Although, I could think of one or two people who might've found out about it.
Hmm. The Malibu Wolf can't possibly be—
"Oh!" Olivia snapped her fingers together as if she was remembering something important. "The Wolf also knew about the rumored affair between Mrs. Lemmon and Mr. Honeysuckle."
The rumored affair between the evil art teacher and the creepy English teacher was an open secret to anyone who had attended Rietveld-Beaumont Academy. If the Wolf knew about it, there was a great chance they might have attended the prestigious school.
"How about their posts?" I asked. "Anything stood out in particular?"
"Hmm . . ." She tilted her head to the side, thinking. "Oh! They posted a TBT photo of her."
I flattened my mouth into a straight line, cursing myself for being so ignorant of these TweetyGram lingos. "Sorry. What's TBT?"
"Throwback Thursday. It's the hashtag we use when posting our old photos on Thursdays."
"Oh. Do you remember what photo it was?"
"I think it was taken at a summer camp. You were in the photo with her too. Wait, I saved the photo somewhere . . ." She lowered her gaze, her mouth pursed in concentration. "Here it is!" She held up her phone to show me the photo, but light reflected on the screen, preventing me from getting a clear look. "I remember saving it because I wanted to ask you what happened to your hair, but then I got wolved and totally forgot about it."
I had an idea of what picture she was talking about, but I had to make sure I was right. "Do you mind sending me the picture?"
"Sure." She tapped her phone screen a few times, and my phone dinged. "There you go."
"Thanks." I opened the picture attached to Olivia's email.
Just as I had suspected, it was a photo of Nat and other campers, taken at Cinnamon Raisin Arts Camp in the summer of '06. Thanks to Charity Mayberry's prank, my hair was neon green, and I still wanted to punch that witch square in the face whenever I saw this hideous picture of me. That aside, this picture led me one step closer to finding the real identity of the Malibu Wolf.
I still didn't know who they were, but I was sure about one thing: the Malibu Wolf was someone from Nat's past.
The rest of the interview was pretty much similar to my previous interviews with the other victims. As soon as the meeting ended, I went back to studying the victims' TweetyGram posts. I found more and more similarities between the victims, and soon, one side of my once-empty evidence board was full.
I capped my marker, dropped it on the whiteboard's tray, and took a few steps back. As I re-read every piece of information I'd written on the board, it became clear to me that I couldn't unmask this wolf through old-fashioned deducting.
There were too many suspects and too little concrete evidence.
The only way I could get to this wolf was by using their own weapon to bring them to justice; set a trap just like they had done to their victims.
Yes. It was time to wolf the Wolf.
Author's Note:
So, any thoughts about this chapter?
For those of you who have read The Sister Zone, I hope you enjoyed Ryan's surprise appearance in this chapter xD
Thanks for reading! :)