Proposal by Meg Cabot

Persian kids, but he’s even more spoiled than most because he’s the youngest, and his family is, like, mega rich. His dad’s a heart surgeon. And they’re super good friends with the Ahmadis, the parents of that girl who died last month. I think they were even distantly related—­second cousins, or something. I was at the funeral, and Zakaria’s mom was bawling her eyes out. Well, we all were, because it was so sad. Jasmin was just a kid, and some guy killed her. How does that even happen?”
    â€œAsk your boyfriend,” Valentina suggested.
    Parisa ignored her. “But Mrs. Farhat was especially upset. And Zakaria, too. He kept his sunglasses on the whole time so no one could see how red his eyes were.”
    â€œAw,” said Melodia. She was the girl whose family didn’t allow her to speak to men outside of her religion. Obviously, this was not a rule she actually followed when her family was not around. “That’s so sad.”
    Jesse and I exchanged glances. I knew what he was thinking. Zack had kept his glasses on to hide the fact that his eyes were red from crying . . . or something else.
    â€œSo do you know what kind of car this Zack kid owns?” I asked Parisa.
    â€œWhat kind doesn’t he own? Last time I was there, he had, like, three cars . . . a Jeep for the beach, a Beamer for school, and a pickup truck for whatever the hell kids like that do with pickup trucks.”
    Kill girls who aren’t interested in them, apparently.
    â€œThanks, Par,” I said, stuffing the address in the pocket of my jacket. “This is a huge help.”
    â€œI don’t understand why you guys are going over there now ,” Lauren, the witch, said. “Not that I’m ungrateful to the mother goddess, because we need the rain, but there are flash flood warnings everywhere, and they’re advising ­people to stay off the roads.”
    â€œYeah,” Melodia said. “This is a good night to stay in , not go out.”
    I couldn’t tell how much of this was genuine concern on their parts, or a desire for us to stick around so they could listen some more through the door, and hear the drama through to the end. I wasn’t sure how much they’d already learned. Not enough, evidently, to know that I could speak to the dead, but enough to know that Jesse and I were on the outs for some reason.
    I understood—­and could even sympathize with and appreciate—­their interest. Real-­life drama is infinitely preferable to most of what we see on TV. That stuff is so unbelievable.
    I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction, however, for a variety of reasons. We had a soul to save, not to mention a life.
    â€œSorry, girls,” I said. “Jesse’s really worried about this kid. What disease was it that you think he might have come into contact with in your ER? Ebola?”
    Jesse rolled his eyes heavenward. He was always getting on my back about my alleged inability to lie convincingly, but my sociology prof says that studies show, the bigger the lie, the harder ­people will fall for it, because most human beings believe no one would ever tell an enormous whopper to their face (which is why they fall so easily into the clutches of corrupt politicians, kitchen contractors, and sleazy boyfriends).
    â€œIt’s probably only a mild case of salmonella, Susannah,” Jesse says. “And it was from the hospital cafeteria, not the ER. Still, it’s important we question him and the rest of his family immediately. These things have a way of spreading if proper precautions aren’t taken.”
    â€œI thought you were here to take Susannah out for dinner for Valentine’s Day,” Ashley asked, suspiciously. Being a thief, she had sharper hearing than the others. She needed it for her trade. And since she was a criminal justice major, she was going to need it for her future career, as