Mom picked me up from school, buzzing with questions about my first day. But I didn’t feel like talking. Even though it hadn’t been a total disaster — I’d made one friend, after all — Wyatt’s cold rejection stung me more than I wanted to admit.

He’s just a weirdo, I told myself, remembering Marnie’s warning. Why should I even care what he thought?

After dropping me off at the house, Mom had to go to a hair appointment at a Beverly Hills salon (Cinderella can’t walk around her new castle covered in cinders, after all). I ordered her not to come home blond and went up to my room to start on my homework.

As I sat cross-legged on my bed reading about chemical reagents, my eyelids grew heavy, and the sticky tendrils of a headache slithered around my brain, threatening to take hold. So I shut the textbook and leaned over to slide it back in my bag. As I did, I noticed that there were not one but two spiral notebooks inside.

The first was green, crisply new — mine.

The second notebook was red, its edges worn from use. Written on the front, in thick black marker, was: W. SHEPPARD, PLEASE CALL IF FOUND: 323-555-4334

I must have accidentally grabbed it at the end of class.

My first thought was, Wyatt must be freaking out.

My next thought was, Well, I obviously have to look inside.

I set the notebook on my bed, halfheartedly debating in my head. You shouldn’t, said one part of me. It’s Wyatt’s business. You should text him and tell him you have it.

What would the text say, though?

Hi, it’s Willa, the girl whose head you bit off when I tried to be nice to you in Chemistry. I know you already hate me, but you have to believe it was a TOTAL ACCIDENT that I ended up kidnapping your precious notebook.

Yeah, no.

And then my inner debate basically died because I’d already opened it.

Wyatt’s handwriting was so tiny and precise that it looked like it had come out of a printer.

BRIANNA LOGAN, 20 Y.O., TAKEN MAY 17, FOUND MAY 21

FAITH FERNANDES, 19 Y.O., TAKEN JUNE 9, FOUND JUNE 13

LORELEI JULIANO, 21 Y.O., TAKEN OCT 31, FOUND NOV 5

TORI ROSEN, 18 Y.O., TAKEN MARCH 18, FOUND MARCH 22

This was the list of names I’d gotten a glimpse of in class.

I blinked at the perfectly formed letters, a chill spreading through my body.

March 22 — that was yesterday’s date.

These had to be the names of the murder victims.

The first two were written in black ink. The third and fourth were in different colored ink — different pens — because they’d happened after Wyatt started his research.

I pulled my new laptop onto the bed and typed in the first name: Brianna Logan. About a billion results popped up: MOVIE-THEMED MURDER BAFFLES LOS ANGELES POLICE — YOUNG ACTRESS FOUND MURDERED — STAGE SET FOR MURDER —

Next, I typed in Faith Fernandes. “HOLLYWOOD KILLER” STRIKES AGAIN — POLICE BELIEVE MOVIE MURDERS ARE RELATED —

With each new name, the headlines grew more ominous. After Lorelei’s murder, the tone of the writing was deadly serious.

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT CALLS IN FBI FOR HELP WITH HOLLYWOOD KILLER — POLICE URGE ACTRESSES TO USE CAUTION —

I found an article from that morning’s Los Angeles Times that detailed the ways the four killings were similar: The victims had all gone missing days before being found. They were all young, beautiful up-and-coming actresses who lived alone. None of them were famous yet, but all had had bit parts in TV shows or movies. Each one had been found dead in an abandoned or empty house. The girls had all been poisoned, and then their bodies had been arranged in scenes set to mimic famous movies, just like Jonathan had said. The movies that “inspired” the killer were The Birds, Kiss of Death, Heathers, and Vertigo. I’d heard of The Birds and Heathers, and Jonathan had mentioned Kiss of Death last night, but I hadn’t heard of Vertigo before.

Apparently all of the girls had auditions scheduled for the days they disappeared — the problem was that none of their calendars contained any helpful leads, just references to the names of fake talent agencies the killer had made up, a different one for each girl. The police thought he must be using disposable cell phones.

The girls’ striking smiles shone from the pictures lined up alongside the article. As I looked at them, the temperature in my room seemed to drop twenty degrees. The reality of the murders hit home. The victims weren’t much older than me. Intellectually, I knew I wasn’t in danger, but still…. It was just so creepy.

I went back to Wyatt’s notebook. Its pages contained detailed descriptions of the way each girl was found — Brianna sitting back against a door, covered in scratches, with fake birds staged around her; Faith in a wheelchair at the bottom of a set of stairs; Lorelei posed as if she’d crashed through a glass coffee table; and Tori set up like the victim of a fall from a tall bell tower.

The dead girls wore full costumes, wigs, and makeup to look exactly like the characters from the films. The killer took exquisite care to get every detail perfect.

Wyatt’s notebook also contained the girls’ addresses, their heights and weights and clothing sizes, their meager acting credits, the dates and times of the anonymous tips advising the police where to find the bodies, and the names of the responding police officers. It was more information than you could ever get just by reading news articles online.

And yet Wyatt somehow knew all of it.

I sat back, my heart pounding and head throbbing. I shoved the notebook to the floor. I didn’t even want it in my room. It felt dirty. It belonged in a bonfire. A shredder. But I didn’t dare destroy it, so I put it in my backpack and zipped it closed. Then I shut the backpack in my closet.

The murders were obviously disturbing enough by themselves — but what kind of person would be so obsessed with them? Who would take such detailed notes on the deaths and let thoughts of them consume his every spare minute?

Oh, just my lab partner, that’s all.

A flash of light flickered in my peripheral vision. An empty ache grew in the pit of my stomach.

I could feel the walls closing in on me. I had to get out of the house.

My new neighborhood was made up of narrow roads that wound along the hillsides. The houses ranged from sleekly modern to old-Hollywood glam, from cottages to mansions. Some were perfectly kept up, like our house, and some were descending into rot and ruin, smothered by ivy and huge magenta-flowering bushes.

I stayed at the edge of the road, where the asphalt met the curb, and kept my head high to listen for oncoming cars. Thanks to the tall shrubs and blind corners, they seemed to sneak up on me at fifty miles an hour. By the time I completed the looping route that took me back to the house, I was panting from the uphill climb, my feet were aching in my flip-flops, and I was totally jumpy from almost being run over about nine times. But at least the walk served its purpose — it took my mind off the Hollywood Killer and Wyatt’s awful notebook.

I couldn’t wait to kick off my shoes and drink a tall, cold glass of water. I reached for the handle of the heavy wood gate and pulled.

But the gate was locked.

I didn’t bother trying the call box, because I knew no one was home. And even if I had my phone with me, there was no point in bugging my mother at the salon.

The skin on my cheeks felt like it was cooking in the brutal sunlight. My throat was parched. It was so dry here — as Jonathan pointed out once, with his usual misplaced pride, the city of Los Angeles is an actual desert.

I tried typing numbers into the keypad — 1-2-3-4. 0-7-2-0, Mom’s birthday. 0-2-1-4, Mom and Jonathan’s anniversary. I knew they wouldn’t work, but it was all I could think to do, and I had to do something. Then I just started randomly punching the buttons.

Finally, I stepped back to assess whether I could climb over the fence. Not a chance. It was eight feet tall, with metal spikes at the top. It went all the way around the property, and the backyard was bordered by a steep ravine that was full of cactuses and probably snakes.

I was on the verge of crying, but before I could muster a sniffle of self-pity, the gate swung open.

“Excuse me.” The guy standing there was a couple of years older than me, with messy-on-purpose dark hair and piercing green eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I had no idea who he was.

“Trying to get in?” I said.

He stared me down. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you shouldn’t be ‘trying to get in’ to someone else’s private property?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, mortified. “I just moved here and … I must be at the wrong house. I thought I was locked out. I’m sorry.”

Loser, loser, loser.

I was about to turn away to find the right house when his green eyes brightened with understanding.

“Hang on — what’s your name?” he asked.

“Willa.”

“Willa?” he repeated. “You’re Willa? Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Come in, come in.”

He held the gate open, and I hesitated, still unsure as to who he was or what he was doing at the house.

He gave me a friendly, slightly crooked smile. “I’m Jonathan’s assistant, Reed.”

This was Jonathan’s assistant? I guess in Hollywood even secretaries look like they could be on TV.

“I just got a call from the alarm company saying somebody was punching a bunch of random codes into the gate,” Reed explained. “How long have you been stuck out here?”

Heat and frustration were under my skin like a coating of grit, and I was a little afraid I’d burst out crying if I tried to talk. So I shrugged without making eye contact, and we walked in silence across the front yard.

“Come on.” He opened the door, and clean, cool air came billowing out of the house. “Let’s get you some water.”

I followed him to the kitchen, where he filled a glass from the filter next to the sink. After a few gulps, I felt a little more stable. Brave enough to look at him again.

Holy crab shacks, was he cute.

“Your name is Reed?” I said. “I’m Willa … but you knew that.”

He gave a little bow. “Reed Thornton, at your service.”

The old Willa might have said something flirtatious. Bold. And maybe it would have made me blush, but I would have done it, because I used to do things that were unknown and even a little scary just for the thrill of it.

But not anymore. I didn’t feel thrilled about anything these days. Not even being in the presence of someone so unbelievably handsome.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry for inconveniencing you.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I’m an assistant. It’s all part of the job.”

I tried to smile back, but I was pretty sure that my attempt came out as a weird grimace. So I drained the rest of my water glass and darted out of the kitchen.

Back in my room, I got my bookbag out of the closet, vowing not to let some stupid rude boy’s stupid notebook scare me.

I’d just sat down on the foot of my bed and pulled my chemistry book out again, when there was a knock on my door.

As I swung it open, I said, “You’d better not be blond.”

“I’m not,” Reed said.

I gasped, then felt my cheeks grow warm. “Sorry, I — I thought you were my mother.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” He grinned, and it felt like someone had opened a window and flooded the room with sunshine.

“Um … what’s up?” I asked.

“Well, I …” He frowned slightly and scratched the back of his neck. “I thought I’d say good-bye, because I’m leaving, only … it seems way weirder now than I imagined it.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s because I make everything weird.”

He laughed. “I thought I was the only one.”

I searched for something semi-intelligent to say. “Do you come to the house every day?”

“No,” he said. “Mostly I work at Jonathan’s office at the studio. But sometimes there’s random stuff that needs handling, so I come by here.”

I nodded. “Are you going to be a director, too?”

He shrugged, his modest, crooked smile returning. “That’s the dream.”

“Did you go to film school?”

“Not yet. I’m taking a couple of years off before college to get experience and make some money. I figure working for Jonathan will get me into any film school I want.”

“Is he that big of a deal?” I thought back to how Marnie had described the other Hollywood kids — as if their parents were the industry elite — and how it was unspoken that I fit right in.

“He’s good at what he does,” Reed said. “That’s more important than being a big deal.”

I hadn’t seen a single Jonathan Walters movie until he and Mom started dating and she’d made me watch them all with her. Actually, I liked them a lot. They were exciting without being mindlessly action-packed and thought-provoking without being boring or preachy.

Then again, I didn’t know enough about movies to know if that made someone a good director or not. I guessed I’d have to take Reed’s word for it.

“Right.” I felt weird about wasting his time and figured he must be eager to go. But he didn’t act like he was in a hurry.

He leaned against the doorway and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You started at Langhorn today, right? How’d you like it?”

“It’s okay. I haven’t met many people yet.”

He nodded. “They can be a bit closed off, until they get to know you.”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“I’m a proud fighting Rattler. Graduated two years ago.” He smiled. “Ebony and emerald forever, right? ‘Rattle, rattle! is the cry of our battle!’ ”

“Yeah … guess I don’t quite have the rattle in my heart yet.” I thought of Wyatt’s icy rejection. “And ‘closed off’ might be putting it mildly.”

Reed sighed. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I was on scholarship, and my parents were nobodies. I had no connections. No famous friends. A lot of doors never opened for me.”

“I’m extremely nobody,” I said. “That doesn’t bode well, door-wise.”

“No, it’ll be different for you,” he said. “You’re Jonathan Walters’s stepdaughter. Even if I weren’t obligated by the terms of my employment to say that counts for something, I’d say it counts for something.”

“And you work for Jonathan,” I shot back. “So you’re connected, too. See how it all worked out?”

Reed laughed again. I felt a twinge of happiness, realizing that I could make him laugh. I wanted him to like me — not necessarily like me like me, but to want to be my friend. Being in his presence was like being on a walk in a peaceful forest. The longer it went on, the calmer and more grounded I felt.

He gestured to the floor next to the bed. “Gucci isn’t your style, is it?”

He’d noticed the backpack.

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

I smiled.

The sunlight danced in Reed’s eyes. “It’s okay. I’m the one who picked it out. Now that I know you, I would have picked something completely different. I just figured, east coast … probably uptight … I was wrong, obviously.”

The thought of Reed buying a gift for me — even if it wasn’t technically from him — sent a tiny electric charge through my body. Instantly, I liked the bag about five times more.

“It’s all right,” I said, picking it up. “It’s growing on me. The zipper’s, like, unbelievable.”

“You’re a good sport.” Reed glanced out into the hall. “Well, I guess I should get going….”

Was I crazy, or did he actually sound a little reluctant to leave?

Trying not to smile too brightly, I stood up to say good-bye. Just as I got to my feet, I felt a tremendous head rush.

A blinding white light flashed in front of my eyes.