Emma let out a few more coughs after he shut the door and then sprang into action, sliding the manila folder over to her seat. Her fingers trembled as she opened it and shuffled through the pages. On the top was the most recent write-up, when Emma had visited the station on the first day of school. Returned Miss Mercer to school in squad car, someone had typed. Four more forms had been filled out saying exactly the same thing.

“Come on,” Emma muttered under her breath, flipping through more pages. There were reports for disturbing the peace and a claim for Sutton’s impounded car, a 1960s Volvo, for unpaid parking tickets. Next on the stack was a statement Sutton had made about Thayer Vega’s disappearance. Emma’s eyes scanned the transcript. We hung out sometimes, Sutton said to the interviewer. I guess he had a little crush on me. No, of course I haven’t seen him since he vanished. Further down the page were the interviewer’s notes: Miss Mercer was very fidgety. Evaded several questions, mostly about Mr. Vega’s . . .

Emma flipped the page and rooted through the files until two words caught her eye. Train tracks. Emma yanked the paper out of the stack. It was a police report, dated July 12. Under LOCATION OF INCIDENT, it said Train tracks, corner of Orange Grove and Route 10. Under the description of the incident it said S. Mercer . . . vehicle endangerment . . . oncoming train. Sutton had been interviewed along with Charlotte, Laurel, and Madeline. Gabriella and Lilianna Fiorello were listed as witnesses, too.

Gabby and Lili? Emma frowned. Why had they been there?

I saw a flash and felt a strange tingling sensation. A far-off train whistle roared in my head. I heard screams, desperate pleas, and sirens.

Just like that, the memory of that night whooshed back to me.

Chapter 7 - The Ultimate Prank

Chapter 7
The Ultimate Prank

I’m behind the wheel of my British racing-green 1965 Volvo 122. My hands squeeze the leather-wrapped steering wheel, and my foot shifts easily on and off the clutch. Madeline sits next to me, twisting the dial on the souped-up radio. Charlotte, Laurel, and the Twitter Twins squish in the back, giggling whenever the car careens around a corner and flattens all of them to one side. Gabby waves around a tube of red lipstick like a magic wand.

“Don’t you dare get lipstick on Floyd’s leather seats,” I warn.

Charlotte giggles. “I can’t believe you call your car Floyd.”