Emma gazed from the photo institute’s elegant columns back to Ethan’s face. A fancy party with Ethan? That would be fun. Maybe she deserved some time to relax and just be herself.
“Okay.” She pushed open the door, casting a grin over her shoulder. “But at the first sign of trouble, we’re leaving.”
Good girl, I thought. For a second, I had been sure Emma was going to demand that Ethan take her home. The problem with Emma being grounded was that I’d been cooped up for days, watching her pace in my bedroom. Crashing a party is just what the boredom doctor ordered. They ascended the stone staircase. The punishing heat of the day had broken, and a cool breeze tickled their cheeks. The scent of lemon trees and a musky mix of women’s and men’s colognes hung in the air. The tuxedoed man eyed them as they approached, and Emma sucked in her stomach. Was he ticking off his mental list of invitees?
Could he tel they were high school students?
“Act natural y,” Ethan murmured to Emma, apparently noticing how stiff she’d become. “The opposite of how you acted when you stole that handbag.”
“Very funny.” When Emma reached Mr. Tuxedo, she shot him the most carefree smile she could muster. “Good evening,” the man said, opening the door for them.
“See?” she whispered when they were safely in the lobby. “I total y played it cool. I’m not as big a loser as you think I am.”
Ethan looked at her sideways. “I most definitely don’t think you’re a loser.” Then he touched the back of Emma’s arm to guide her inside the exhibit. For a moment, al sounds and sights dul ed, and Emma felt like she and Ethan were the only ones in the universe. When he let go at the end of the lobby, she adjusted the strap of Sutton’s silky dress and tried to breathe normal y.
The museum was dark and smel ed like fresh flowers. Guests mingled around the wide, terra-cotta-tiled space, some gazing at the black-and-white photos on the wal s, some chatting with one another, others scoping out the crowd. Everyone wore sleek gowns, chic party dresses, and dapper suits. There were clusters of people surrounding three awestruck guys who looked like they were in their twenties, probably the artists. A jazz band played an El a Fitzgerald song, and waitresses in simple black sheaths swirled around with trays of canapés and drinks. A couple of guests glanced at Emma and Ethan curiously, but Emma tried to stand as straight and confidently as she could.
“Stuffed shrimp?” a waitress asked as she floated past. Emma and Ethan each took a treat.
A second waitress materialized, offering them flutes of champagne. “Of course,” Ethan said, taking two glasses and handing one to Emma. The crystal sparkled, and the bubbles rose to the top of the glass.
Champagne. How I wished I could have one tiny, beyond-the-grave sip.
“Cheers,” Ethan said, offering his glass in a toast. Emma clinked her champagne flute to his. “How did you know about this?”
A slight flush crawled up Ethan’s neck. “Oh, I just came across it online.”
Warmth spread through Emma’s chest as she imagined Ethan sitting at his computer, scrol ing through events they could attend together.
They walked toward the artwork. Around each
photograph was a large black square frame. Smal beams of light from the ceiling il uminated each image. The first photo was of a long, straight road as seen from the inside of a car. It was printed in black archival pigment ink on cotton paper, and there was something haunting about the dark trees and eerily lit sky. Emma glanced at the smal placard off to the side. Besides listing the artist’s name, it also showed the price. Three thousand dol ars. Whoa.
“So I haven’t told you the latest,” Emma whispered as they moved to the next photo, a triptych of desert vistas. The champagne tickled her throat, and she felt increasingly aware of how close Ethan stood to her as he examined each photo. To outsiders, they probably looked like boyfriend and girlfriend. She took another sip of champagne. “I’m almost positive Sutton was with the Twitter Twins at Clique on the night she died.”
Ethan lowered his glass from his lips. “What makes you say that?”
Emma explained the conversation she’d had at
Madeline’s house on Saturday. “It’s too much of a coincidence. They had to be the friends Sutton was with when she shoplifted. And what if they . . .” She looked away, fixating on a fire extinguisher mounted to the wal across the room.
“Gabby and Lili, kil ers?” Ethan tilted his head and squinted as if trying to picture it. “Those two are definitely off-kilter, that’s for sure. They have been for years.”
Emma skirted around an enormous potted plant with spidery leaves to get to the next photo. “Part of me thinks they’re too vapid to pul it off.”
“They’re the poster girls for vapid,” Ethan agreed. “But whatever happened to Gabby on the night of the train prank gives them motive.”
“And maybe that ditzy-girl act is just that—an act,” Emma said. She’d certainly known fake ditzes before, like her foster sister, Sela, who acted like the quintessential dumb blonde in front of their foster parents but sold pot out of an abandoned split-level at the back of the neighborhood.
“They’re good actresses, then.” Ethan walked to another photograph. “Did anyone tel you that Gabby ran over Lili’s foot last year with their dad’s Beemer?”
“No . . .”
“And then when Lili came home with a cast on, apparently Gabby was like, ‘Oh my God! What happened to you?’”