A girl in her late teens with haughty blue eyes and a preppy headband atop her lustrous blonde curls appeared on the screen, waving at the viewers.

"Hey, guys. So, I'm here in front of Starr Sis. Studios"—the camera tilted up to show the studio's iconic water tower behind her—"where our favorite TV show, Malibu, 90265, is being filmed as we speak. I've been personally invited by our queen, Eleanor Clarke, to a private studio tour. Cool, right?"

The smirk on the girl's face reminded me of Charity Mayberry's—smug, arrogant, exasperating.

"Alright, let's go!" The girl put her oversized sunglasses on, squared her shoulders, and hooked her twenty-thousand-dollar leather Griffin handbag in the crook of her elbow. Her sparkly Crestienne Leroux stilettos clicked against the pavement as she strutted toward the security booth.

A burly security guard stepped out of the booth. "May I help you, miss?"

"Hi, I'm Trish Nash, and this"—she gestured at the person behind the camera—"is my brother Fish."

Jake snorted with mirth. "Did she just say Fish?"

"Yep," I replied.

"We're here for the private Malibu, 90265 tour with Eleanor Clarke," the girl in the video continued, her voice saccharine sweet.

"Sorry, miss," the security guard said. "There's no studio tour scheduled for the day."

Trish's smile dropped. A few seconds later, she gave an awkward laugh. "There must be a mistake. You see, I"—she placed her hand on her chest for emphasis—"have been personally invited by Eleanor Clarke herself. She even told me I could film the whole thing for my followers on TG."

"Sorry, miss, but Eleanor Clarke never hosts a private tour of the studio," the security guard insisted.

Panic flitted across Trish's face as she glanced at the camera. She forced out another laugh and stepped closer to the security guard. Desperation began to seep into her voice as she lowered it into a whisper. "You don't get it. We're live on TweetyGram right now. Could you just check the list?"

A hint of sympathy flickered in the guard's eyes. He gestured for the two visitors to wait while he disappeared into the booth. A few moments later, he reappeared with a clipboard in his hands, his lips stretched into a sympathetic line. "Sorry, miss. Your name's not on the list."

She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers noticeably shaking. "Okay, okay. This is outrageous. Eleanor Clarke is my best friend. And I have been personally invited by her for a private one-on-one studio tour. I have proof, okay?" She pulled out her phone from her Rouge de Coeur Griffin, tapped the screen a few times, and thrust it in the security guard's face. "See?"

The security guard frowned, but he managed to keep his composure. "I hate to tell you this, but it looks like you just got wolved."

Trish blew out a derisive breath, her face flushing with rage. "Did you just say I got wolved? I am not stupid, you moron," she fumed, jabbing a finger into the security guard's chest. "I paid for this tour, you hear me?"

"Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to step back." The man held his hands up in a placating gesture, but she planted her fists on her hips instead, ready to spew out curses. Before she could do so, a bony hand tugged her arm.

"Trish, come on." The boy's voice was hoarse. "Let's just go."

She stared defiantly at the boy holding the camera for a moment, but then she pursed her lips and huffed. "Fine. Let's go."

With her head held high, she strutted away from the security booth. Yet just as the security guard was about to go back into the booth, Trish spun around and dashed to the entrance, leaving her brother behind. Screaming like a mad woman, she tried to jump over the vehicle barrier.

The security guard rushed to stop her from entering the building, grabbing her around the waist from behind. But she elbowed him in the stomach with enough force to send him a few steps backward.

The commotion attracted the attention of other security guards in the studio's lot. Two more security guards tried to catch Trish, yet she persisted, going around and around in circles to evade them.

It took about twenty seconds—and the help of three more security guards—for the guards to finally restrain her.

"Let me go!" She punched and kicked the air like a child on a tantrum as one of the guards carried her out of the premises. "Do you know who I am? I'm Trish Nash! My daddy's Cash Nash, and he's going to sue this place! All of you are going to get fired—no. All of you are going to end up in jail! Do you hear me? Let me go! Let me go! Let me—"

The video ended abruptly.

"Now that was embarrassing." Jake cackled with laughter, his eyes lighting up with mirth.

Having been bullied in his childhood, Jake detested arrogant and narcissistic people like Trish Nash, and, like me, he enjoyed seeing them humiliate themselves.

"What makes you think she got wolved by the same wolf that wolved my sister though?" As soon as the words finished spilling from his mouth, he jerked his head back in surprise. "Wow, that's a lot of wolf in a sentence."

I chuckled. "Trish Nash fits the Malibu Wolf's preferred victim profile to a tee. It's just a hunch, but based on the timeline, she might be the Malibu Wolf's first victim."

"Ah." He shifted his gaze back to the board. The corners of his mouth curved downward as he narrowed his eyes at the group photo at the top right of the board, probably because twenty-seven of the thirty-two faces were crossed out in red ink.

Cautiously, he turned his head in my direction. "You haven't killed all these people, have you?"

I gave him the side-eye. "That's my suspect pool, you idiot."

"Hmm?"

"One of the victims told me the Wolf uploaded this picture." I tapped my knuckle against the group photo on the board. "It was taken at Cinnamon Raisin Arts Camp in the summer of 2006. I called the camp yesterday and asked if they still had the photo, but as it turns out, their copy of the photo—along with most of their documents at that time—was destroyed in a fire after some campers lit some fireworks and accidentally burned the office building."

Jake clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Teenagers."

"Yep. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, only those pictured in the photo have it."

"So you think someone in that photo"—he glanced at the board—"might be the Malibu Wolf."

"Exactly."

He crossed his arms and observed the picture on the board. "But there's still a chance that one of these people showed the photo to their friends, right? I mean, I know lots of people who wouldn't shut up if they went to camp with a celebrity."

"Yeah. My theory's not perfect. But I scoured TweetyGram for the picture, and so far, I haven't found anything yet."

"Hmm . . ." He pursed his lips and stroked his chin. "You should check if any of these people work on the set of Malibu, or at least know someone who does."

"Way ahead of you. Out of those thirty-two people, only seventeen attended Rietveld-Beaumont Academy, and—"

He swiveled his head in my direction. "Isn't that your old school?"

"Mm-hmm. Based on one of the victim's testimony, I can safely assume that the Wolf attended Rietveld-Beaumont Academy, possibly at the same time as Nat and me. And thanks to modern technology, I've found out that of those seventeen Rietveld-Beaumont alums, six have moved to another state, five now live in another country, two work on the Malibu set—including Nat—and one is dead."

"Well, then that other person who works on the Malibu set has got to be the Wolf. Case closed." He puffed out his chest and flashed a self-satisfied smirk at me.

"If only it's that simple. That other person happens to be one of the most squeaky-clean people I've ever met. Plus, I couldn't find any information about these two." I pointed at the petite, hawk-nosed blonde and the bespectacled, pimply brunette with braces standing at the opposite end of the second row. "It's weird. It's as if they vanished into thin air after high school."

He craned his head forward and squinted at the picture. "They look familiar, though. What's their name?"

"Charity Mayberry and Harriett Honeysuckle."

"Wait." He quirked an eyebrow. "The Charity Mayberry? As in your nemesis Charity Mayberry?"

"Mm-hmm." A small sense of triumph still swelled in my chest when I saw the cat whiskers and devil horns on the petite blonde's face.

Charity had always stood right at the forefront of a group photo. But not in this one. Thanks to my masterpiece, for once in her life, she chose to hide half of her face behind the largest kid in the camp.

"Ring any bells?" I asked.

Jake shook his head. "By the way, what's up with your hair—"

"Don't ask."

He raised both hands and switched his attention to the circled words written in capital letters under the notes about the victims' profiles. "Wolf the Wolf?"

"That is my plan to lure the Malibu Wolf out of their hiding place." A mixture of excitement and pride rushed through my veins as I showed him the photo I'd been working on for the past few days. "Meet Louise Constantine Stéphanie Claudine de Sardines."

To my utter confusion, Jake gasped in horror the second he saw the photo. "What did you do to your face?"

"I TweetyTuned it." I stared at the photo, wondering what was so horrifying about it. Doubt sneaked into my voice as I asked, "She's pretty, isn't she?"

"Sure. For a cat-human hybrid," he deadpanned.

I pouted. Seriously? A cat-human hybrid?

"And who the heck's Louis whatever his name was again?" Jake asked.

"Her name is Louise Constantine Stéphanie Claudine de Sardines," I retorted. "She's my bait to lure the Malibu Wolf out, okay? She's their perfect victim. She goes to Aspen for winter holidays, she's transferring to Rietveld-Beaumont Academy next semester, and her dad—"

"Owns a sardine empire?" Jake interrupted. "Oh, don't tell me. Her great-great-great grandfather was a demonologist."

I glowered at him. "Her dad is a member of the Maccheronian parliament, and her great-great-great grandfather was a decorated military officer and a member of the Luxembourg royal family, not a demonologist. Although that'd be pretty cool." As Jake's lips slid into a smirk, I continued, "Anyway, Louise is thirty-fifth in line for the throne in Maccheronia."

"Is that even a real country?"

"Of course, it is. It's located somewhere between France and Italy."

Disbelief remained in his eyes, but he said, "Fine. But why the super long name? Why don't you just choose a simpler name like Stephanie Miller or something?"

"It's a Maccheronian tradition. All of the royals have at least three names. Their queen's name is Marie-Francoise Séverine Marielle de La Spaghetti."

"Why Maccheronia though?" he insisted. "Honestly, Louise Constantine whatever sounds like a made-up name. If you ask me, the Wolf will easily figure out you're another wolf."

"It's my best shot, okay? Ninety percent of teenagers in the US have a TweetyGram account. If I say Louise is from, say, Louisiana, and she has zero followers, the Wolf will figure out that she's another wolf too. At the very least, they won't think of her as a popular girl, and they might not choose her as a victim. But, if I say Louise is from Maccheronia, then it'll make sense that she has zero followers because minors in Maccheronia aren't allowed to use TweetyGram."

Jake scrunched his forehead. "Why?"

"The Maccheronian government believes TweetyGram is unhealthy for people under the age of eighteen."

"Ah." He nodded. "I might be able to help you with the followers."

I flicked my eyes up at him. "How?"

"Well, it's a secret, so don't tell anyone about this, alright?"

"My lips are sealed." I zipped my lips and threw away the imaginary key.

"TweetyGram's algorithm is designed to promote posts from accounts with higher credibility. Basically, the more followers you have, the more likely your profile will be promoted by the app."

"Okay, so?"

"So, new users who are trying to promote their businesses—or themselves—usually resort to Triple F."

"What's Triple F?"

"Follow for follow. It's a community for people who want more followers. We follow them, and they'll follow us back. We can remove the follow and vice versa when we've gained enough real followers."

Having lots of followers would make Louise's account resemble the Malibu Wolf's other victims. After all, all of the victims had at least 5,000 followers. I just had one concern.

"But are you sure the Wolf isn't one of them?"

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it with a pop.

I patted him on the arm. "Thanks for trying to help, but I think I'll—"

"Why don't you just create more fake profiles then?"

"Hmm?"

"You can only switch between five profiles without logging out and logging back in, but there are no restrictions as to how many profiles you can create as long as you use different e-mail addresses for each of them. You can then use those profiles to follow Louise. Of course, you'll need to post a few pictures on each profile, or else TweetyGram would think you're a bot." As I tried to comprehend what he was saying, he continued, "It's a bit trickier than using Triple F, and you can only get about twenty or thirty followers in a short time. But it's a good start. With the right posts, more real people will follow you and you won't have to worry about creating fake followers anymore."

"Hmm. That's actually a pretty good idea." As a proud grin stretched across his face, I cleared my throat. "By the way, do you know any teen extras I can hire to be Louise's face? I can't use my own face because there's a chance the Wolf might recognize me, and apparently, I sucked at TweetyTune."

He chuckled. "I have a better idea. But first, you have to promise not to use what I'm about to teach you for evil."

I rolled my eyes. "I promise."

"Alright. Give me your phone." He held his hand out, palm up.

I held my phone close to my chest, frowning. "I'm not going to give you my phone."

"Do you want to catch this wolf or not?"

I hesitated for a moment, but then I handed my phone over to him. "Don't do anything funny with it, okay?" I warned, but he ignored me. His finger slid over my phone screen, and I craned my head to see what he was doing. "What are you doing?"

He opened TweetyTune and chose the Face Merge option. "There's this trend on TweetyGram where couples merge their photos to see what their future kid looks like."

I gaped at him, speechless.

His cheeks flushed bright red, and he averted his gaze. "I've got a lot of free time, okay? Now, say cheese."

He held up the phone, and I grinned instinctively.

Snap. The sound of a camera shutter went off.

He pressed the camera flip icon on the screen, switching to the front camera. Then, he bared his teeth in the creepiest smile in a terrible attempt to imitate mine.

"Okay, I did not look like that," I protested, but he ignored me and snapped a selfie instead.

"Alright." He wiped the stupid grin off his face. "Let's see."

The app asked him to choose the gender for the face he was trying to create—male, female, or other. He chose female and clicked the Merge! button. The screen loaded for a few seconds before a photo of a beautiful girl popped up on the screen.

The girl was the perfect mix of Jake and me; long, golden-blonde hair, mesmerizing hazel eyes, and striking features with the perfect amount of delicateness.

"Whoa . . ." I marveled at the photo.

"You're welcome. You can use more than two people's photos if you want. Just make sure the pose is similar so it doesn't turn out weird." As I made a mental note to experiment with this TweetyTune feature, he offered, "You know, if you want, I can do a lot more with the desktop version."

The idea was so enticing. Jake was clearly more experienced with photo editing than me, and I could save a lot of time with his help.

There was just one thing I needed to negotiate.

"How about this? Since the selfies we just took came as a package with your first request, how about you become Louise's TweetyGram account manager for my second request?" I offered. "And that includes editing her photos and getting followers—fake or real—for her account."

He twisted his lips in thought.

"Or I can count the selfies we took as your second request." Suppressing a smirk, I added, "Your choice."

He let out a defeated sigh. "Fine. I'll take the first option."

I clapped my hands together. "Perfect."

While Jake left to get his laptop, my phone dinged. There was a message from Nat.

Hey, Linds! You free tomorrow?

Yeah. Why?

Then it's time for you to meet the cast and crew of Malibu!

I sat straight up on the sofa, excitement bubbling up inside me.

You got me an all-access set pass?

No, silly. I thought you said we should keep this thing a secret.

"Hmm?" I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my legs.

What is it then?

Curiosity filled my head as I waited for her to respond. When she finally did, my eyes bulged out of my head.

A summer pool party hosted by yours truly, of course!

The party starts at three.

Be sure to dress your best to mingle with the crowd!

Several scenarios played in my head; none of them were good. When attending a summer pool party, most people would wear swimsuits, sundresses, or anything that showed lots of skin. Unfortunately, people would run away and scream for their lives if they saw what I hid under my clothes.

I sank back against the cushioned backrest. Oh my God. What have I gotten myself into?

Author's Note:

So, what do you think about Lindsey's plan?

Who's ready for a summer pool party? It's going to be fun!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, please show some support by voting and/or leaving comments. Thanks for reading!