Sherri departed, and Alexa turned her attention to her charge. She was hoping Katie went to bed on the earlier side; Alexa had some research on L.A. apartments to do. There were so many different neighborhoods! Four hundred and seventy-two, she’d learned online. She knew the Valley would be too hot, and downtown L.A. too crowded, but that was as far as she’d gotten in terms of ruling out areas. There was Echo Park and Pacific Palisades and Koreatown; there was San Pedro and Fairfax and Santa Monica and Topanga Canyon. Each of these names tasted exotic on her tongue when she said them aloud in the privacy of her own bedroom. Playa Vista. Sunset Junction. Los Feliz.

Katie was as efficient and self-contained as a Roomba, a nice change from Morgan’s overparented other friends. When Alexa asked her what she’d like for dinner Katie told her she’d made herself some pasta with a little bit of butter and cheese before her mom left, and that she sliced some red peppers to make sure she got her vitamins. Alexa was not sure that Morgan was familiar with how to boil water, never mind slice a pepper. She was impressed.

Katie settled down to watch Cupcake Wars in the living room and invited Alexa to join her. The living room was so small that Alexa had the impression that if she sat down her knees would knock up against the television set—and she had topped off in ninth grade at five feet, five inches.

“I’ll join you a little bit later,” she told Katie. “I just have a couple of things I need to take care of.”

She left Katie immersed in the wars to go on a little snoop. Back when she used to babysit, the snooping was the best part of the job. In the past she’d found vibrators and porn magazines (old school!) and stashes of cash and photos of old girlfriends and boyfriends. In one case, she found the photo of an old boyfriend of a dad who was happily married to a mom. She’d found antianxiety meds and baggies of weed and hidden credit cards. Most people, it turned out, were hiding something from the people they love. She’d never done anything with any of her discoveries; she’d held them in a secret place in her mind, coiled like a coral snake, ready to strike.

Alexa headed up the narrow set of stairs that led to the second floor. The painted banister was peeling. It could totally be lead paint, in a house this old, so just in case Alexa didn’t touch it. Her own house had been professionally de-leaded.

Sherri’s room revealed nothing. There was a double bed made up neatly, with a patchwork quilt folded in thirds at the foot of it. There was a dresser and a nightstand, and the nightstand drawer was empty. Who had empty nightstand drawers? The absence of secrets felt like a secret unto itself. The closet was small, the way closets were in these houses, with nonfancy wire shelving, the kind you bought at Home Depot and that left marks in some of your shirts if you weren’t careful. Four pairs of shoes were neatly lined up on one of the shelves. Who, Alexa wondered, had only four pairs of shoes? It looked like the closet of a nun.

One bedroom was empty—like, literally empty, nothing in it, and Alexa thought about how her mother would have turned it into some kind of funky home office with maybe a standing desk and a few succulents from Sage. Well, Sherri was a single mother, a working mother, so no surprise that she hadn’t quite gotten around to interior decorating just yet.

Alexa progressed to the third room, which was clearly Katie’s. It was messy in the way that Morgan’s room was messy, with scattered bottles of nail polish on the floor, probably not closed all the way, and a paperback open on the bed. The dresser drawers were closed only partially, with pieces of T-shirts and pajama bottoms sticking out of them. On the pillow—the pillow! This was so something Morgan would do—was an uncapped marker, and Alexa reached for it. She saw the cap on the nightstand, which was on the far side of the bed, and as she was reaching for it she put her hand on top of the pillow to steady herself. There was something hard under the pillow (Morgan would do that too, leave something weird under the pillow—a contraband snack, maybe, or a copy of The Fault in Our Stars, which she’d been told she was too young to read until at least seventh grade) and before she could even think about what she was doing Alexa slid the object out.

It wasn’t a snack. It wasn’t a copy of The Fault in Our Stars. It was a composition notebook with a black-and-white marbled cover, very similar to the “grief journals” her mom had bought for Morgan. Don’t open it, Alexa told herself as she was opening it. Don’t you dare open it, you know that bad things happen when you stick your nose places it doesn’t belong. In eighth grade, for example, she sneaked on to Google Docs and read Mia Rosenberg’s narrative nonfiction draft and found out it was all about how angry she was at Alexa for stealing her boyfriend, Elijah Connor. In fairness, Elijah Connor had never cared that much about Mia, and everybody knew it, and anyway Alexa only dated him for two weeks because he turned out to be really, really boring.

And it was not like it was a diary, for Heaven’s sake! It was probably full of math equations. Diaries of eleven-year-old girls were typically pink and hardbound and closed with those tiny padlocks with keys that went missing all the time. This was just a notebook. Alexa would prove it, by taking a small peek inside.

The first line on the first page said, “I’m not supposed to write any of this down. I’m not even supposed to talk about it.”

“Alexa!” Katie called from downstairs. “Where’d you go? Alexa! They’re going to announce the winner!”