I kept fumbling to get the pictures in the envelope.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve seen them. Tim Bruyn from school showed me. His grandpa is the police chief. He’s investigating the murders. Or he’s supposed to be, but he’s doing a lousy job.”

“Is he?”

She nodded solemnly. “Everybody says so. Even Grandma. Not in front of me, of course, but I heard her say it on the phone, and she never says bad stuff about anyone.”

“A good policy.” I smiled, but she only stared at me, as if she could tell I didn’t mean it.

“So that’s your cell phone?” I said, pointing to it. “Pretty cool. Mine doesn’t have a flash.”

“It’s my mom’s.”

“And she lets you use it? Very cool.”

Again, she just stared at me with those appraising eyes. Come on, kid. Help me out here.

“Well, I’m not going to ask how you got in here,” I said. “But it isn’t the kind of place for kids to hang out, so I’ll walk you upstairs—”

“I’m not hanging out. I’m investigating.”

She tugged a backpack off her shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a pad of paper. She flipped to a page, then, pen poised, looked up at me. “Your name, please.”

“Savannah Levine. Private investigator.”

“License?”

I started pulling out my ID. She gave me a look that called me a moron.

“Private investigator’s license?”

Damn, she was good. What did they teach kids in this town? Fortunately, I had one—two, actually, for both Oregon and Washington. I gave her both. She wasn’t impressed; just jotted details down and handed them back.

“So you’re an investigator, too,” I said.

“No, I’m a kid.”

“So how come you’re here?”

“Because the police aren’t.”

“Ah. So you’re investigating because you want to grow up to be a detective?”