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looks the same as ever. There isn’t anything else nearby that might have been recently painted, except …
    The cultural center sign is halfway across the lawn between the building and the street. I’m practically on top of it before I can see clearly in the dim light thrown from the nearest streetlight. Red letters cover the back of the sign from top to bottom, stark against the pale wood:
    MURDERLAND
    THE SEQUEL
    COMING SOON
    I’m not sure how long I stand there, staring, before I realize I’m not alone anymore. The girl from Melanie’s table with the curly hair and the weird dress is standing a few feet away. Her eyes dart between the words on the sign and the can in my hand, which rattles when I drop my arm.
    “This isn’t what it looks like,” I say.

CHAPTER FOUR

    Ellery
    Saturday, September 7
    How’s everything going?
    I consider the text from my friend Lourdes. She’s in California, but not La Puente. I met her in sixth grade, which was three towns before we moved there. Or maybe four. Unlike Ezra, who jumps easily into the social scene every time we switch schools, I hang on to my virtual best friend and keep the in-person stuff surface level. It’s easier to move on that way. It requires fewer emo playlists, anyway.
    Let’s see. We’ve been here a week and so far the highlight is yard work.
    Lourdes sends a few sad-face emoji, then adds, It’ll pick up when school starts. Have you met any cute preppy New England guys yet?
    Just one. But not preppy. And possibly a vandal.
    Do tell.
    I pause, not sure how to explain my run-in with the boy at Lacey Kilduff’s fund-raiser, when my phone buzzes with a call from a number with a California area code. I don’t recognize it, but my heart leaps and I fire off a quick text to Lourdes: Hang on, getting a call about my luggage I hope. I’ve been in Vermont a full week, and my suitcase is still missing. If it doesn’t show up within the next two days, I’m going to have to start school in the clothes my grandmother bought at Echo Ridge’s one and only clothing store. It’s called Dalton’s Emporium and also sells kitchen goods and hardware, which should tell you everything you need to know about its fashion cred. No one who’s older than six or younger than sixty should shop there, ever.
    “Hello?”
    “Ellery, hi!” I almost drop my phone, and when I don’t answer the voice doubles down on its cheerful urgency. “It’s me!”
    “Yeah, I know.” I lower myself stiffly onto my bed, gripping the phone in my suddenly sweaty palm. “How are you calling me?”
    Sadie’s tone turns reproachful. “You don’t sound very happy to hear from me.”
    “It’s just— I thought we were supposed to start talking next Thursday.” Those were the rules of rehab, according to Nana: Fifteen-minute Skype sessions once a week after two full weeks of treatment had been completed. Not random calls from an unknown number.
    “The rules here are ridiculous,” Sadie says. I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice. “One of the aides is letting me use her phone. She’s a Defender fan.” The only speaking role Sadie ever had was in the first installment of what turned out to be a huge action series in the ’90s, The Defender, about a down-on-his-luck soldier turned avenging cyborg. She played a sexy robot named Zeta Voltes, and even though she had only one line— That does not compute —there are still fan websites dedicated to the character. “I’m dying to see you, love. Let’s switch to FaceTime.”
    I pause before hitting Accept, because I’m not ready for this. At all. But what am I going to do, hang up on my mother? Within seconds Sadie’s face fills the screen, bright with anticipation. She looks the same as ever—nothing like me except for the hair. Sadie’s eyes are bright blue, while mine are so dark they almost look black. She’s sweet-faced with soft, open features, and I’m all angles and straight lines. There’s only one other