“Good grief, you’d think you three were the ones who murdered those girls, the brazen way you talk about them,” Adora says, putting her hand to her head as if she’s about to faint. “How horrible.”

“If we did,” Amma counters, winking at Camille as Adora fusses with the perfect blue ribbon-tied ringlets of her daughter’s hair, “they’d never arrest us. We’re way too pretty for prison.” Once Adora finishes, Amma and her two friends who follow her everywhere leave, Camille knows she’s right—- no one would even suspect them.