After days of planning and experimenting with TweetyTune, I finally finished creating the perfect victim for the Malibu Wolf.
Louise Constantine Stéphanie Claudine de Sardines was everything I wasn't. She had curly champagne-blonde hair, glowing skin with zero freckles, big blue eyes, killer cheekbones, and bee-stung lips—a popular feature among young TweetyGrammers.
A sense of accomplishment surged through me as I stared at the photo on my phone screen. "Alright, Louise. Time to introduce you to TweetyGram."
I opened the social media app to set up Louise's profile, but the first post on my news feed distracted me.
It was a selfie of Sera with her boyfriend at what seemed to be a fancy restaurant. She had one hand on his chest and another holding a glass of wine while he had his arm around her shoulder, squeezing her close. The Dimple Couple sported matching smiles, ones that were so wide their faces looked like they were about to crack in half.
tgif 💜
I could feel Medusa Lindsey peeking out of the darkness as I read the caption.
Sera was having a romantic candlelight dinner with her wholesome boyfriend. Bree was attending another fundraising gala with her charming boss. Meanwhile, I was eating instant ramen in my kitchen, wearing a ten-year-old tank top and shabby shorts.
On a Friday night.
All by myself.
A heavy sigh escaped me. Why can't I be just a tiny bit luckier in love?
I frowned at the question ringing in my head. The question had never crossed my mind before. Not once. Not since the May accident, at least.
What is wrong with me?
As I scratched the back of my head, Medusa Lindsey crawled out of the darkness and unleashed her vicious serpents. The next thing I knew, I was scrutinizing Sera's profile page.
TweetyGram allowed its users to organize their photos into albums. Sera, being the neat freak that she was, took full advantage of this feature. She had five albums in total: makeup and hairdo; friends and family; glam up; malibu, 90265; and s&m.
My eyes almost popped out of my head when I read the last album's title. She can't possibly post racy pictures on a family-friendly app, can she? It's against the rules!
The Sera I'd known was the perfect example of a good girl. She never cheated on her tests, she never skipped a class to buy a pop star's album, and she never even cursed.
But people changed.
Curiosity tingled in my fingertips, and I opened the questionable album first. To my confusion, all of the posts were G-rated photos of Sera and her photogenic boyfriend, whose perfectly sculpted face, sparkling ice-blue eyes, and toned physique led me to believe he was a fashion model.
It wasn't until I clicked on one of the photos and saw the tagged user's handle that I realized S&M were the initials of their names: Sera and Mitchell.
Oops.
Embarrassed, I quickly hit the back button. I was about to return to my settings page and switch to Louise's profile when Medusa Lindsey stopped me. My right hand moved by itself, and my thumb tapped on Sera's other album, the one titled makeup and hairdo.
Back when we'd been in school, Sera had managed to help out in her mother's beauty parlor, babysit her younger siblings, and become a straight-A student, except for eighth grade when that witch Mrs. Lemmon took over the art class.
Sera had always been a hard worker, and a glance at the photos in this album told me she still was. Apart from being a makeup artist for the cast of Malibu, 90265, she also did hair and makeup for all kinds of events, including weddings, sweet sixteen parties, and even funerals—and boy, if I died, I'd want her to do my makeup for my funeral.
She turned a dead 101-year-old woman into a seemingly-alive 45-year-old, for crying out loud.
Her freelance work slowed down three months ago, which, upon further investigation, was when she started posting photos of her and her beau, Mitchell.
Against my better judgment, I kept scrolling through her posts, moving from one photo album to the next, until a post caught my attention.
It was a photo of Sera, Mitchell, Nat, Almond, Nat's co-stars Eleanor Clarke and the Jason Momoa look-alike who played Ash in Malibu, and a cute guy with bleached blond hair I recognized as Nick Hickey, a member of the popular British boy band The Coolest Guys on the Block. Everyone was dressed in cocktail attire, smiling wide for the camera.
happy birthday to my bff @NatalieWinters! 🥳🎂
here's to many more years of friendship!🥂
The strangest thing happened as I read the caption. Somehow, I felt . . . left out.
What the heck?
Shaking the weird feeling off, I continued scrolling through the photos until I saw a selfie of Sera and a familiar chocolate Pomeranian.
babysitting the cutest nephew ever @CocobearWinters 🐶
My eyes flicked to the album's title. The post was shelved under friends and family, but judging by the matching green cap and barista apron Cocobear was wearing, the photo was most likely taken on the set of Malibu, 90265.
Sera was moving up to the top spot on my suspect list. She had the means and opportunity, although her motive remained a mystery.
Based on her TweetyGram posts, she seemed to be doing well professionally. She didn't have any reason to conduct an online scam like this. But then again, everyone had a skeleton in their closets.
Sera can't be the Malibu Wolf, can she?
Suspecting one of my best friends to be a criminal caused my head to pound as if someone had hit me with a hammer. The scorching hot weather only made it worse. I dragged my feet toward the kitchen, pulled a pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator, and poured myself a glass.
But the only ones who knew Nat got a C on her eighth-grade art project were Sera, Paris, and me. And Mrs. Lemmon, of course. Now, I'm not the Malibu Wolf. Paris is in Paris—which means she couldn't have taken the photos of the Malibu set. She doesn't have the Arts Camp photo either, so—
A knock on the door fished me out of my thoughts.
"Shrimp?" Jake's voice resonated from the hallway. "Are you in there?"
"Yeah. Just a sec." I strode toward the door, cracked it open, and poked my head out. "Oh my gosh. You finally realize I have a front door!" I joked, earning a wry smile from him. "What do you want?"
"About that dinner with my grandma. Are you free next Friday at, say, seven?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"Perfect." He gave me a thumbs-up and a tight smile. I was about to close the door when he put his hand on the edge of the door. "Wait. There's one more thing." He gave me a questionable grin. "I need another favor. May I come in?"
I arched an eyebrow. "Request number two?"
"Not exactly. It has something to do with my first request, so . . ."
I exhaled a tired breath and answered, "Fine."
I was about to open the door wider when I saw the scars on my limbs. A pang of horror shot through me, and I pushed the door closed, accidentally smashing Jake's fingers. I winced as I heard a faint crack.
"Ouch!" He jerked his hand back and waved it, hissing in pain.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. Just—hold on." I slammed the door shut, dashed into my room, and changed into a sweatshirt and sweatpants before rushing back to check on Jake.
When I opened the front door, he glowered at me, his left hand still rubbing his bruised fingers. "What the hell, Shrimp? Are you trying to cripple me or something?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I bit my lower lip and glanced at his left hand. "Do you need a trip to the ER?"
"No, no. It's no big deal." There was caution in his eyes as he pointed at the doorway. "Now may I come in?"
"Please." I gestured with a sweeping hand for him to come in, and he tiptoed cautiously into my apartment, his frown still in place. I waited until he was far, far away from the front door before I closed it. "So why are you here again?"
"My grandma asked to see a picture of us together. I think she might've suspected I lied since I've never uploaded a photo of us on TweetyGram—"
"Whoa." I stopped short in my tracks. "Your grandma is on TweetyGram?"
"Yep. She's a thirteen-year-old at heart."
Chuckling, I took out a pack of ice from the refrigerator and handed it to him. "Here."
"Thanks." He placed the ice pack on his bruised fingers.
"Alright, where's your phone?"
He let out an awkward laugh. "Yeah, about that. Grandma kept bugging me about wanting to see our photo earlier, and I had no choice but to spill some orange juice on my phone." He wrinkled his forehead for a moment before he continued, "A glass of orange juice, to be exact. So right now, my phone screen isn't responding."
I rolled my eyes. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm perfectly aware of that."
I flopped down on the stool, picked up my phone from the countertop, and opened my camera app. As he settled next to me, I held my phone at arm's length. I waited for him to get ready before I snapped a picture of us.
Click.
"Perfect." Jake stood up. "Just email me the photo, and I'll forward it to my grandma."
"Wait, wait, wait." I studied the picture we'd just taken.
It wasn't a bad one. But our hands were kept to ourselves, our cheeks were at least a foot away from each other, and our smiles were a little too restrained. Compared to the photos of the Dimple Couple I saw earlier, my selfie with Jake was much too . . . friendly.
"What's wrong?" he asked, peeking at my phone screen.
"Well, unless you want your grandma to think I just kicked Princess Tortie out of your apartment, then I suggest we take another picture."
He pulled his mouth into a straight line and nodded. "I see what you're talking about." He dragged his seat behind mine. "May I?"
I had no idea what he was going to do, but I said, "Sure."
I froze as he draped his arm over my shoulder and brought his face next to mine. I could smell the minty scent of his soap and feel his warm breath against my cheek, and for some bizarre reason, my heart skipped a beat.
It was Medusa Lindsey's doing.
It had to be.
I tried to calm myself down by telling myself over and over again that this was just an act. Jake wasn't into me. He was just a friend, not my boyfriend. I didn't even want him to be my boyfriend, for crying out loud.
But no matter what I told myself, my stupid heart kept beating faster and faster.
"And now you look like I'm holding a gun behind your back and forcing you to take a selfie with me," he joked, causing my lips to twitch into a tiny smile. "I'm not going to choke you to death. I promise."
I snorted a laugh. My pulse was still a little faster than normal, but the tension in my shoulders eased. I had no idea how he did it, but he managed to calm me down with a few simple sentences.
"Alright," I said. "Say cheese."
We took a few selfies, striking some silly poses in between the romantic ones. By the time we finished, the photos were on par with—or maybe even better than—the Dimple Couple's. They were so good I was tempted to post each and every one of them on TweetyGram.
Stop it, Lindsey. This is getting ridiculous. He's not your darn boyfriend!
I kicked Medusa Lindsey back into the darkness and shifted my attention to Jake. "I assume your grandma has an email address?"
"Dozens," he answered, making me chuckle. "Just email me the photos. I'll forward them to her."
While I did as he requested, he wandered into my living room and stopped in front of my evidence board. By now, it was full of scribbles, photos, and sticky notes, detailing the Wolf's MO, victim preference, and my plan to lure them out of their hiding place.
"So . . ." Jake slid his hands into his pockets and squinted at the scribbles on the board. "Are you a private detective currently working undercover as a journalist?"
"No." I bit back a smile. "I actually considered being a private detective once. But then I realize the last thing I need is to follow cheating spouses and catch them in action. I've seen enough infidelities to be a love skeptic for good."
He turned his head in my direction, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in his eyes. "You don't believe in love?"
"I believe they're for the privileged, and I'm not lucky enough to be one of them."
"Ah, don't say that. You never know what the future might hold for you." He offered me a comforting smile, one that sent a strange current of warmth through me. "So, what do we have here?" he asked, gesturing at the victims' photos.
"It appears our wolf has a type." I sauntered toward him. "Every one of the victims so far is—or was—a student at expensive private high schools, aged fifteen to eighteen, rich—some are filthy rich—and all of them are cheerleaders."
"Hmm." He folded his arms across his chest, his muscles flexing in a way that made my throat go dry. "You think our wolf has a grudge against super-rich, super-popular cheerleaders? Specifically, those who attend private high schools?"
I swallowed, trying to focus my attention on our conversation. "Possibly. I wouldn't be surprised if the Wolf attended a private school themselves. I haven't found any male victims yet, but then again, they might be too embarrassed to post about it online. You know, like a certain someone who got tricked into believing he won the lottery he never entered." I wiggled my eyebrows, smirking.
A hint of pink tinged his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. "Who's Trish Nash?" He pointed at the circled name in the middle of the board.
"Well . . . you're gonna love this." Smirking, I pulled up the viral video I'd downloaded from TweetyTube a few days ago and pressed play.
Author's Note:
Any thoughts about this chapter?
In the next chapter, we'll find out more about Lindsey's plan to catch the Wolf.
Thanks for reading!