I turn around. “Hey.”

I hear the noise of a straw sucking more air than milkshake. He turns, lifts the cup into the air, and lobs it into the garbage can. Finally he turns to me. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just talking.”

“Well, you don’t need to talk to me,” he tells me. “Why does everyone on Cape Cod talk to strangers?”

Locals call it “the Cape.” Cape Cod is only for the tourists’ T-shirts. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, Detective. I’m not.” He looks up at me. “Has anyone ever told you and your friends that you remind them of great hammerhead sharks?”

This is obviously not a compliment.

“They only swim in shallow waters.” He laughs as he leaves.

A familiar voice calls my name. I turn, and Aimee and Michael are coming across the parking lot.

Aimee gives me a quick hug. “You here alone?”

“No, I’m with Brandy and another girl.”

“Brandy? Cool. Does another girl have an actual name or is she supremely unlucky?”

“Her name is Tressa. But it’s me who’s supremely unlucky.” I motion toward the door. “They’re inside.”

“Ha!” Michael says. “They wouldn’t let you in because of the feet, right?”

“Still haven’t joined civilization, huh?” Aimee smiles.

“Civilization is overrated, I think.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Why should you have to wear shoes? People’s hands are probably worse. Not like everyone has to wear gloves.”

I shrug and hope we still aren’t discussing my dirty bare feet when Tressa comes back out.

“So how come you’re not rehearsing?” I ask.

“Well, we have time off once in a while. We looked for you at Seaside. Your grammy told us you were here.”

“Hey, guys,” Brandy says, rushing over when she sees them. “I hear you’re big stars this summer.”

Brandy gives them both a hug. Tressa stands behind her, looking Michael and Aimee over.

“Well, I don’t know about stardom,” Aimee says.

“Not yet,” I say, and she smiles.

Brandy hands me my ice cream.

“Oh!” Aimee says. “Can I please?”

I nod, and she scoops some with her finger. Tressa looks like she’s been stuck with a pin.

Someone yells, and I turn to see the manager arguing with Ronan. He’s standing on the running board of the shop’s antique ice cream truck with the giant sign that says DO NOT TOUCH.

“I’ve told you before to stay off of that truck,” the man shouts. “I won’t tell you again.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

The man’s eyebrows knit together as he steps toward the boy.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ronan says. He gets down and backs away. “I’m going.”

Tressa scoffs. “What’s his problem, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Brandy says. “He lives at Seaside Heaven with his father, the new fix-it guy. He doesn’t talk much.”

I’m just about to tell them he spoke to me when I remember what he said. I look over at Tressa, thinking of hammerhead sharks.

“Well.” Tressa sits up straighter. “I think someone ought to tell him it’s summer and that maybe he should change his clothes.”