"I knew Lila had something to do with this!" Kitty exclaims in rage, pacing back and forth, tugging and her long, silky hair.

"You don't think Lila actually, you know...murdered Aster?" I ask, quizzical.

"I don't know," says Kitty, "I honestly don't know what she's capable of!"

Midnight is deep in thought, before voicing her opinion. "What if after reading "Lucy's Demise", she planned all of this."

Fox stops fidgeting and moving and is completely silent. "Do you think this is all some kind of sick prank?"

"Maybe," Midnight shrugs, "Did she have any mental health issues? Motives? Maybe she faked her own death to get out of the hole that is Eastmore."

Fox looks thoughtful. "She was a loud person, very extroverted, let everyone know what she thought. But not about something like that. I honestly don't know."

Kitty looks puzzled. "She kept a diary. But I have no idea where she hid it. She was always meticulous about it being hidden. Once in eighth grade, Elsie stole her diary. She never let anyone get to it it after that. Kept under lock and key. Literally."

"The police and Lila are suspects," I say counting on my fingers, "and "Lucy's Demise", the blood in the woods and Aster's diary are clues?"

Midnight nods. "Exactly, and we need to find out how to get Aster's diary."

***

I hang behind like the weirdo that I am, as Kitty; bright eyed and bushy tailed rings the doorbell. The four of us are currently standing on the doorstep of 34 Evyline Street. The Evans Residence. Kitty's hair is flowing down her back, her skin glowing in the Saturday morning sunshine, and thick, black lines of mascara are running down her cheeks. Yes, she has been crying a little, but not that much. She spent half an hour in front of the mirror perfecting that look. Of the desperate and depressed best friend.

Suzannah Evans glides to the door in a silky caftan, her hair twisted into an elaborate updo, as her acrylic nails grip onto a martini for dear life.

"Kitty! Darling!" she exclaims, wrapping her in a hug, and spilling some of her drink down the back of Kitty's skirt.

Kitty grimaces, but shakes it off before Suzannah can see. "Suz, this past week had been really tough on me, what with Aster gone. I was hoping you'll let us see her room just one last time?" here, Kitty sobs hysterically, but fakely.

"To remember her by? So many memories in that room!" Kitty continues.

"Of course, Darling," exclaims Suzannah, peering around, "but, us?"

"Uh, yes," Kitty straightens up, "Fox, Midnight, Eilon and I."

"Fox, of course, dear!" says Suzannah, twirling the olive on a toothpick in her glass. "But that Deluca girl, and Darling, that boy's a Greene."

"Yes," says Kitty, smiling so awkwardly, that instead of resembling a kind smile looks far more like bared teeth. "They're my friends. Gotten me through all these tough times."

Suzannah sighs, "Did Aster even know them? She never would have associated with their kind," she whispers into Kitty's ears.

Defiantly, Kitty grimaces, over Suzannah. "We're coming in if you don't mind. Excuse me."

With that, the three of us follow her lead through the entryway and up the winding staircase.

"Oh, Goodness!" exclaims Suzannah, as we slide past, popping the olive in her mouth; shocked.

I had only been in Aster Evans room once before; at her commemoration service, but I had too many things on my mind to take it in. It's cream colored, with a slanted ceiling, as it is located at the very top of the house, just under the slanted roof, but that doesn't mean by any means it is a small room.

There's a large four-poster canopy bed in the center of the room, pushed up against the wall. It's draped with sheer white mosquito net, and plumped up with feather cushions. It's made like she never slept in it, and perhaps one night she might just crawl back into it, out of the blue.

There's a large bookshelf in one corner, filled with books of every color, size and description. It's strange, really, Aster never struck me as a bookworm.

There's a dainty vintage dressing table against another wall, with intricate carvings, all white-washed. An sleek oval mirror sits atop in, showing reflections; Kitty, ridiculous with half a tube of mascara on her cheeks and a wet skirt; Midnight in usual black with a grim scowl to match; Fox with his T-shirt, jeans and ruffled brown hair, with his eyebrow furrowed in despair.

"It's just like she was really here," Fox contemplates, pulling strands of the mosquito net through his fingers.

Kitty sits down on the bed. "All the sleepovers we had here, without a wink of sleep."

Midnight peers into the mirror. "All the speeches she would have practiced here; telling me what a nobody I am." She smiles wryly; sarcastic.

"Remember, we're here to find the diary," I say, speaking up, and lifting the mattress of the bed to see if it was underneath. Nothing.

Kitty rifles through the drawers; of the dressing table and a white-washed chest of drawers in another corner, lifting shirts, skirts and pants. Nothing.

Fox tosses the pillows into the air, peering underneath the mountain of them, and checking under the bed. Nothing.

Midnight checks behind all the canvases and art prints hung on the walls, behind and inside all the photo frames and under all the other furniture. Nothing.

I lift open a pink velvet pouf with a secret compartment inside. Nothing.

Kitty wonders over to the bookshelf, picking through all the books. They are all read books, by famous authors with famous titles. She pauses. A book's spine is peeling off, as though it was  just stuck on. 

"Moby Dick my Herman Melville," Kitty mutters, "I swear I saw that somewhere else before. Yep. Two copies." she takes out the dodgy Moby Dick, and flips it around to the front cover.

It's a leather bound journal, with "ASTER" scrawled on the top in golden lettering. Kitty peels off the fake spine. There's a lock binding the journal closed. Midnight slides something out of her hair; a bobby pin. She takes the book from Kitty and straightens the bobby pin out, placing on end inside and turning it until it clicks.

The diary is open.

Kitty flicks through the entries. "This was all ages ago!" She finds the last diary entry, half way through the book, the rest comprised of empty pages.

She finds the last entry. "September 3rd." she stops cold. "That's the day before my Dad died." She runs a finger along the center of the book; feeling a rough edge. "The next day's been torn out."