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Max leans over from the driver’s seat. “Get in, losers, we’re going sleuthing.”
“You’re not Lola,” I whisper.
“Mrs. Hooper?” I whisper. He looks up at me, eyes wide. “You know her?” “No. But the guy upstairs killed her husband.”
The man who killed so many helpless girls was bested by a seventeen-year-old nationally ranked softball star in his own house.

