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locker room. Daisy Dukes showing off tanned, toned legs—check. Aviators on her head, holding back perfect blond hair—check. Laser-blue eyes on a blemish-free face—check. Patrick’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Annabel wasn’t a “tennis person,” but she was friendly with the gang, as was Nicholas.
    Patrick leaned back coolly in his chair, held out his hand, and said, “Hey, Bella. Give me some love.” Those eyes were playful, his voice husky.
    I saw Annabel’s eyes flash for the quickest second. She didn’t like that nickname. Anyway, she dutifully slapped his hand and said, “What’s up, Paddy?” Ha . He hated that nickname. Touché , my friend.
    Annabel gave Celia Emerson a hello squeeze on the shoulder and Celia, the tennis person who probably knew her best, said, “See you after work?” Annabel nodded.
    The elites waved to Annabel. All but one elite. I hoped Evie didn’t notice, but tall, brooding Goran—who’d never, ever dated a girl at the club despite having tons of females swooning over him—couldn’t take his eyes off Annabel. In the midst of greeting her friends and fans, including Evie and me, who got a special smile and a wave, Annabel pretended she didn’t feel his eyes on her. But she couldn’t help it in the end. Before she turned to go, she raised her head and shot a shy, under-the-eyelashes look at Goran and nervously fingered her cherished dog charm. The electricity nearly made me jump out of my skin. I don’t know when or how they’d gotten together, but yep, it was a fact: our tennis Adonis and our sun-worshipping Venus were having the romance of the century. And for some reason, they were trying to hide it.
    Teenage boys aren’t always so perceptive, though, and I don’t think Patrick noticed his best friend, Goran, had a budding relationship. Patrick stood up, stretched, and stared shamelessly after Annabel sashaying into the women’s locker room, no doubt to change into her bikini for an afternoon in the sun. “Yes, boys,” Patrick pronounced. “It’s gonna be a great summer.”

 
    After
    The first thing Evie and I noticed as we skulked in the detective’s wake the day after Annabel died: he either was a tennis fan or would be by the time he was done with this case. He’d stopped in the crowded lobby, and as Evie and I jockeyed for position, we could see he was staring at the elites. They were out on Court 1 early today, practicing their short balls. They moved in a rhythm as if choreographed, one after the other, never missing a shot. Sure, Ashlock could’ve been eyeing a potential suspect out there, but I could see he was fascinated.
    Goran ran up and slammed the ball crosscourt, smoothly turning and jogging back to the line afterward; Serene, long black ponytail flying behind her as she came up right behind Goran, was already nailing her forehand down the line with one silky stroke before Goran was back in line; and the rest of the kids followed.
    â€œGo! Go! Go!” The elites’ head coach, Will Temple, was feeding them balls as fast as he could. After they each went one more time, he shouted, “Okay! Volleys!”
    And so the elites had to move faster, running closer to the net, crouching, and lunging to pull off crisp volleys from Will’s feeds. The three of us, with twenty feet separating Evie and me from the detective, stood behind the glass and watched them play like they were zoo animals. They were exotic, youthful, and full of promise. Special and elusive and rare. All of them—only five to ten at a time trained during a given week in the summer—held high rankings in their age groups in the New England junior tennis world. Today, their play, while perfect as usual, felt robotic and joyless. If you’d watched them enough over time, you could just tell they were rattled by Annabel’s death.
    Pretty soon