TweetyGram

32 - #Pinkitt

"Twenty-two years old TweetyFluencer Riri Richards was found unconscious with a serious head injury at the Tweety Mansion last night, where a birthday party for fellow TweetyFluencer Cher Quinn was being held," the anchorwoman on the TV said. "The police are investigating the possibility of foul play, but have yet to comment . . ."

"Poor girl," Bree said, her eyes fixed on Harriet's selfie next to the anchorwoman's head. "How is she?"

"Nat said the doctors are putting her in a medically-induced coma to try to reduce brain swelling. They're hopeful though," I answered.

"That's good news." Bree took a seat beside me on the sofa, her forehead creasing with lines of curiosity. "What exactly happened last night?"

"I don't know. I was talking to Nat after searching Harriet's room for proof that she was the Malibu Wolf, then Sera screamed, and . . ." The guilt over what I'd done last night, accusing Harriet of being the Wolf without proof and violating her privacy by sneaking into her room, swelled in my chest. "Ugh." I propped my elbows on my legs and dropped my face into my palms. "I feel terrible."

"You were just doing your job." Bree rubbed circles on my back.

"Bree's right." Jake plopped beside me on the sofa and offered me a bag of chips he'd stolen from my refrigerator.

I dipped my hand into the bag, took a potato chip, and ate it. The crisp, salty taste of chips would normally take my mind off things, but not this time.

"Has the Wolf contacted you again?" Bree asked.

I shook my head. "I've left a few messages, but they haven't even read it."

As the words left my lips, suspicion stirred in my gut. Before Harriet's accident, the Wolf had always posted on TweetyGram daily and replied to my messages within minutes. But now they'd vanished into thin air.

Something must've happened to them.

If Harriet was indeed the Wolf, she couldn't continue moonlighting as faux Nat now that she was in a coma. And that would explain the Wolf's sudden disappearance. But if that was true, then there was no way I could prove she was the Wolf now that she was in a coma. And that meant I would have nothing to write about. And that would mean my career was dead before it even started.

The pounding in my head intensified, and the muscles in my neck tensed. I slumped back against the cushion and heaved out a sigh. "I'm starting to think Harriet is the Malibu Wolf."

"Yeah, I think so too." Jake shoved a handful of chips into his mouth and chomped.

Annoyance pricked at me. Here I was about to lose my job, and there he was, casually eating the food I bought with my hard-earned money as if it were his. "What are you doing in my apartment anyway?"

"For moral support, of course. Someone tried to kill your friend—your former classmate. Who's to say you're not next?"

I barked out a derisive laugh. "Please. If you want free food, at least have the balls to admit it."

"Fine." He shrugged, shamelessly crunching a mouthful of chips. "I'm here for the free food."

I rolled my eyes and picked up my phone. There weren't any new messages. Is Harriet really the Malibu Wolf?

Something didn't feel right. I couldn't find the autographed Moonlight book Trish had given to the Wolf or the Wolf's charm bracelet in Harriet's room. She hadn't been wearing the bracelet at the time of her accident either. There was no evidence that Harriet was the Malibu Wolf.

None at all.

The only thing that connected Harriet to the Wolf was the sunglasses-wearing pineapple charm on her bracelet. But I swore I'd seen someone else wearing a similar charm, so it could've been a new trend I wasn't aware of.