“Yes, but I don’t entirely understand Twitter.” Mr. Marin looked sheepish. “Do you have to invite people to be your friends, like on Facebook?”

“People just follow you. I can take over your Twitter account if you want. And what if we use it to arrange a flash mob?”

Mr. Marin frowned. “Didn’t a flash mob cause riots in Philly a few summers ago?”

“It would be a controlled flash mob,” Hanna said with a small smile. “We could reach out to everyone on a local campus like Hollis or Hyde and have them gather for an impromptu rally. Maybe we could hire a band. The cooler we make it sound, the more kids will want to come even if they don’t know what it is. You could appear and make a speech, and we could have people in the crowd registering them to vote, too.”

Mr. Marin cocked his head. His eyes glimmered in the same way they did when he was about to say yes to a trip to Hershey Park, which Hanna used to beg for every weekend. “Let’s try it,” he said finally. “I think we should go with Hyde College—it’s small and close to Philly. Can you make the arrangements?”

“Sure,” Hanna said.

Mr. Marin leaned forward and touched Hanna’s hand. “See? You’re a natural at this. And what you said, earlier. About . . . well, about how things have changed between us.” His voice was soft and tentative, almost nervous. “I don’t want it to be that way.”

“I don’t, either.” Hanna sniffed. “I don’t know what to do about it, though.”

Mr. Marin thought for a moment. “Why don’t you stay here some nights?”

Hanna looked up. “Huh?”

“The new house is so big. There’s a bedroom for you that’s always open.” He fiddled with the silver pen in his hand. “I miss you, Han. I miss having you around.”

Hanna smiled shyly, feeling like she was going to cry again. She didn’t want to live with Kate again, but things did seem different with her dad now. Maybe living with him would be better this time. Maybe they could start over.

“Okay,” she said shyly. “I guess I could stay here a few nights next week.”

“Great!” Mr. Marin looked thrilled. “Whenever you want.” Then, his expression turned serious again. “So that’s it, then? There isn’t anything else you want to tell me?”

Tabitha’s face swooped through her mind like a dive-bombing hawk, but Hanna shut her eyes and willed it out again. “Of course not.”

He smiled at her and cuffed her softly on the arm. “Good girl.”

Hanna rose, gave her father a kiss, and left. That had gone better than she planned. Probably better than A had planned, too.

But after she let herself out the front door, she noticed something wedged under her front tire. It was a crumpled-up flyer for Pretty Little Killer, the TV biopic that had aired the night the news had broken about Tabitha.

Ali’s eyes were hauntingly blue, and her cruel smile seemed alive, like she could jump out from the page at any moment. A faint giggle sounded in Hanna’s ears, and she spun around, checking the quiet neighborhood street. It was empty, but she still felt like someone was watching. Knowing her every secret. And ready to tell.

Chapter 5

THE LITTLE MERMAID

“I don’t understand why we’re going to this party at midnight.” Emily shifted her weight on the chicken-print cushioned barstool in the Fieldses’ kitchen. “Didn’t you say it started at nine?”

Beth dabbed eye shadow on Emily’s upper lids. “No one goes to parties at nine. Midnight is the fashionable hour.”

“And how would you know that, good girl?”

“‘Good girl’?” Beth snorted. “Ha!”

“Not so loud!” Emily whispered.

It was a few minutes past eleven, and Emily’s parents had already retired after a family dinner of pot roast, a game of Scattergories, and a boring TV program about the history of the railroad. They had no idea Emily and Beth were going out on a school night, much less to a loft in Philly full of college kids and booze.

Beth had spent the last hour slathering Emily in makeup, using a curling iron to give her reddish-blondish hair bouncy, sexy waves, and even demanding Emily wear the black satin push-up bra in her drawer, which Emily had bought at Victoria’s Secret with Maya St. Germain, a girl she’d dated last year.

“Looking different will get you out of your funk,” Beth had advised. Emily wanted to tell her that she was pretty sure the only thing that would get her out of her funk would be if it turned out killing Tabitha had been a dream, but she appreciated Beth’s effort.

“There. Your transformation is complete,” Beth said now, swiping a bit of lipstick on Emily’s lower lip. “Take a look.”

She pushed a yellow hand mirror into Emily’s hands. Emily stared at her reflection and gasped. Her eyelids looked smoky and sultry, her cheekbones were sharply defined, and her lips were full and downright kissable. It reminded her of the way Ali used to make her up during sleepovers. All her friends urged Emily to wear makeup to school, but she always felt embarrassed applying it herself, sure she’d somehow do it incorrectly.

Beth dangled a slinky black flapper dress and a black headband with a feather poking out the top under Emily’s nose. “Now put these on. Then you’ll be set.”

Emily looked down at the good-luck Ali sweats she was still wearing. She wanted to ask Beth if she could keep them on, but even she knew that was going too far. “Can’t I wear jeans?”

Beth’s features settled into a scowl. “This is a costume party! And jeans are not fabulous. We want you hooking up with someone tonight.”

Hooking up? Emily raised a newly plucked eyebrow. Beth had surprised Emily since she’d been home. Emily had heard L’il Kim floating out from Beth’s old bedroom, and Beth had belted out all of the lyrics, even the dirty ones. And Beth had shown Emily a picture of Brian, her new boyfriend—who also happened to be the head swim coach.

“Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” Emily joked now, taking the dress from Beth’s hands.

“Why, you don’t remember me being such a risk-taker?” Beth teased back.

“I remember you being a lot like Carolyn.” Emily made a pinched face.

Beth tilted forward. “Did something happen between you two?”

Emily fixed her eyes on the refrigerator. Her mother, organized to the core, had pinned up next week’s dinner menu. Monday was tacos. Tuesday was spaghetti with meatballs. Tuesday was always spaghetti with meatballs.

Beth placed her chin in her hand, talk show host–style. “C’mon. Spill it.”

Emily wished she could. Carolyn never let me forget what a terrible daughter I was, she could say. All I wanted was for her to wrap her arms around me and tell me it would be all right, but she never did. She wasn’t even there in the delivery room with me. She only found out afterward, when it was all over, and then she was just kind of like, “Oh.”

But she shrugged and turned away, the pain and the secret too great. “It doesn’t matter. It was just stupid stuff.”

Beth stared at Emily, like she knew Emily was hiding something. But then she turned away and glanced at the clock over the microwave. “Okay, Miss Fabulous. We’re leaving in ten.”

The party was in Old City—ironically, the neighborhood in Philly where Emily’s obstetrician’s office had been. After finding a parking spot in a garage across the street, Beth, who was wearing a Statue of Liberty crown, a long, green, Grecian-style dress, and gladiator sandals, strolled across the uneven cobblestones toward a freight elevator in an industrial-looking building. A bunch of other kids, all in elaborate costumes, jammed in with them, and instantly the small space smelled overpoweringly of deodorant and booze. A couple of guys in gangster pinstripes and porkpie hats glanced at Emily appreciatively. Beth nudged her excitedly, but Emily just adjusted her feather headband and stared at the elevator safety card on the wall, wondering when this thing had last been serviced. If it doesn’t break down while we’re in it, I’ll stay for an hour, she wagered with herself.

Pounding music thudded through the walls as the elevator creaked up three stories. The doors opened into a dark loft crammed with votive candles, huge tapestries and paintings, and tons of people in costume. Cher writhed with Frankenstein on a makeshift dance floor. The evil queen from Snow White swing-danced with Barney the dinosaur. A zombie wriggled on top of a table, and two aliens waved at passing cars from the fire escape.

“Whose party is this again?” Emily yelled to Beth.

Her sister raised her palms to the sky. “I have no idea. I got the invite off Twitter. It’s called ‘March Monster Madness.’”

Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out at Penn’s Landing and the Delaware River. Emily craned her neck and immediately spotted Poseidon’s, the seafood restaurant where she’d worked last summer. It was the only job that offered health insurance—Emily could just imagine prenatal checkup showing up on her parents’ insurance bill—and every day, she’d worked until her ankles ached, her voice was raw from saying Yo ho ho! in a gruff, pirate-ish tone, and her stomach heaved. She always crawled back to the dorm at Temple smelling like fried clams.

At the bar, Beth ordered four shots. “Bottoms up!” she said, handing two of the glasses to Emily.

Emily examined the dark liquid in the glass. It smelled like the gag-worthy Fisherman’s Friend menthol lozenges her father insisted she suck on when she had a sore throat, but she swallowed it down anyway. Then, someone bumped Emily’s shoulder. A girl in a green wig and a long mermaid dress complete with a fish tail practically fell into her.

“Sorry!” the girl yelled. Then she looked Emily up and down and started to smile. “Killer!”

Emily stepped back, her limbs suddenly stone. “Excuse me?”

“Your outfit.” The girl felt the fabric of Emily’s dress between her fingers. “It’s killer!”

“Oh. Th-thanks.” Emily’s heart slowed. Of course she hadn’t said Emily was a killer.

“It’s my dress.” Beth butted in between them and slung her arm around Emily’s shoulders. “But doesn’t she look amazing in it? I’m trying to get her to come out of her shell and be a little naughty tonight—dance on top of the table, make out with a stranger, flash Market Street . . .”

The mermaid’s eyes brightened. She reminded Emily of a sexier, green-haired version of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. “Ooh, I like it. A bad-girl bucket list.”

Beth gave the girl a high five. “What do you want to start with, Em?”

“How about kissing a stranger?” the mermaid suggested.

“Or stealing someone’s underwear,” Beth said.

“Ew!” Emily wrinkled her nose.

Beth put her hands on her hips. “Okay, then. Come up with something better.”

Emily turned away from her sister and surveyed the crowd, not loving the idea of a bad-girl bucket list. The music was something fast and galvanizing, nothing like the trite stuff DJs always played at Rosewood Day dances. Two girls dressed as hippies held hands in the corner. A couple in Star Wars Stormtrooper uniforms fed each other shots on the couch by the window.