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year.”
    “Where did you live before that?” Aria asked.
    “Maplewood, New Jersey,” Graham said.
    “ Maplewood? ” Aria blurted. According to the Tabitha Clark Memorial website, Tabitha had gone to high school in Maplewood.
    Graham gave a resigned sigh. “Let me guess—you’ve been following the Tabitha Clark case.”
    Aria’s stomach felt like it had been filled with hot, explosive fizz. “Did you know her?”
    Graham stared into the middle distance, his blue eyes muddy. And then, before he said another word, Aria knew why he looked so familiar. She recalled a video she’d seen on the Tabitha Clark website of a cute boy dancing with Tabitha at prom. She saw his name next to posts about a pizza party fund-raiser in Tabitha’s honor. She even recalled his voice on CNN, talking about the last time he saw Tabitha, a few months before she died.
    All of this passed through her mind in a matter of seconds. And then Graham raised his teary eyes to Aria, uttering exactly what she feared. “Yeah. Tabitha was my girlfriend.”

8
LICENSE TO KILL
    Later that night, Hanna took Mike’s hand as they stepped off the elevator on the Palm Tree Deck. “Nine-oh-seven is that way,” he murmured, then turned right and started down a long corridor. Hanna followed him, shooting a haughty look at Phi Templeton, who had paused eagerly at her cabin door. Hanna and Mike were on their way to a top-secret, exclusive party in Mason Byers’s suite, but not everyone was invited.
    They passed a long mirror, and Hanna gazed at her reflection. She was definitely party-ready. Her skin glowed with a brand-new tan; the gauzy, burnt-orange sundress she’d bought at the King James floated softly away from her hips; and the gladiator heels she’d purchased just before the trip made her legs look so superlong that she didn’t mind that they pinched her feet a little.
    Mike stopped at the last door at the end of the hall. “Here we are.”
    They listened for a moment. Bass thumped from inside. A girl squealed, and a bunch of guys laughed. The scent of booze and cigarettes wafted under the door.
    Hanna bit her lip. “What if the chaperone hears us? I don’t want to get in trouble.”
    Mike’s thick brows knitted together. “Since when do you care about getting in trouble?”
    Hanna wound a piece of perfectly curled auburn hair around her finger. “I don’t want to have to give up any more tanning time to sit in some cruise ship’s idea of detention. It’s bad enough I have to work in the dungeon.” She hadn’t bothered to sign up for a volunteer job before the cruise, so she’d been randomly assigned a position in the ship’s administration office. The office was in the bowels of the ship, run by a woman named Vera who wore a thousand tiny barrettes in her hair and was obsessed with country music. Hanna was supposed to do mind-numbing data entry about the ship’s capacity the whole morning—Vera tried to make it seem so interesting that this particular vessel could hold almost a hundred more guests than were on board. Mostly, she’d just googled how she could make a grass skirt look sexy for the end-of-trip talent show.
    “Don’t worry,” Mike said. “Mason paid off this hallway’s chaperone to keep quiet. We’re cool.”
    Then he knocked on the door. It opened a crack. “Password?” said a gruff voice.
    “ Flipper ,” Mike whispered.
    The door opened, and they walked into a suite packed with bodies. The patio door was open wide, letting in the warm, fragrant air, and a bunch of people leaned over the railing or sat on the deck chairs. On the kitchen’s counter were a bunch of airplane bottles of liquor, a half-drained jug of rum, plastic cups, and pretzels, peanuts, and M&M’s from the minibar. Rihanna blared from an iPod dock, and a few people were dancing on one of the beds. The room smelled thickly of perfume, sweat, and all-natural carpet cleaner.
    “Welcome to our soiree.” Mason strode forward and offered Hanna