She pushes off and starts pedaling. I ride after her. “Where are you going?”

“The police station. Where else?”

My mouth doesn’t want to say the words, but I push them out anyway. “Do you think Mr. Boyce killed Ms. Sullivan?”

Her eyes narrow to slits. She is merciless. “He could have.”

“I’ll never believe that,” I tell her. “Not Mr. Boyce. He might have an affair, but he’d never kill anybody.”

“You watch the same cop shows I watch,” Skylar says. “The major suspect is always the husband or the boyfriend. No matter how nice they seem, the police go after them first.”

My legs feel too weak to push the pedals. She’s right about crime shows. What if she’s right about Mr. Boyce, too?

The police station is only a few blocks away. We both ride slowly, slowly, slowly, barely pedaling, but we get there anyway.

We lock our bikes to a rack and stand at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the big glass door. We’ve never been inside a police station.

We climb the steps one at a time, like kids with little short legs. On Main Street people go in and out of stores. Cars and bikes go by. It’s just an ordinary day for everybody but Skylar and me.

The glass door doesn’t open automatically. We push hard. It’s very heavy.

Inside, I expect to see criminals shouting and cursing and carrying on, but the room is more like the post office—except there aren’t any lines.

A policeman smiles at us from behind a plexiglass barrier. “What can I do for you girls today? Lost dog or cat maybe? Stolen bike?”

We approach him cautiously. “It’s a lot more serious than that.” Skylar’s voice comes out high-pitched like that of a scared child.

I move behind her, hoping she’ll do all the talking.

The policeman’s smile fades a bit as he waits for her to go on.

Skylar gulps and takes a deep breath. “We have something to tell you about Ms. Sullivan.” Her voice is a whisper now, and she has to repeat herself before the policeman understands.

“Hold it right there. I’ll get Detective Klein.” He goes through a doorway. We hear him say something. A tall, thin man appears. He looks like a TV detective, the kind who takes one look at a person and knows everything worth knowing.

“I’m Detective Klein,” he says. “And you are?”

We tell him our names. I have to say mine twice because I’m too scared to speak up. He takes us to his office and gives us sodas.

We open the cans and take a few sips. I choke on mine, and some goes up my nose and makes me cough. Except for the way one of her legs jiggles, Skylar looks totally calm.