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We said we weren’t going to talk about football anyway,” I reminded him. “Let’s just figure out when we can meet with Officer Mendez.”
    Michael and I came up with a few suggestions, and I wrote our reply to Officer Mendez and sent it.
    I knew I always fumbled when I talked to Michael about football, but I also knew that he was feeling down and I wanted to make him feel better.
    â€œMichael, I’m really glad Mr. Trigg gave us this story,” I said. “I think we can really do some great work here . . . maybe even break the case and find out who did it!”
    The line was silent for a few seconds.
    â€œMichael? Are you still there?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yeah, sorry, I’m here,” Michael replied. “Sam . . . ?”
    Michael’s voice trailed off. I could hear sadness in it, and I wished I could make it go away. These games must have really gotten to him.
    â€œYes, Michael,” I answered.
    â€œGood night,” he said abruptly. “Have a great weekend.”
    After I hung up, I looked at the phone in disbelief. Michael Lawrence definitely hadn’t just been going to say good night, so what had he beengoing to say before he stopped himself?
    I heard screams coming from Allie’s room and knew that the scary moviefest had begun. I flopped down onto my bed, grabbed my pillow, and put it over my face. Samantha Martone, meet sleepless night.

Chapter 5

MARTONE MEETS IDOL, LOSES ABILITY TO SPEAK

    Tuesday afternoon, Michael Lawrence and I headed to the Cherry Valley Police Station. We had hardly spoken at all since the phone call on Friday night, so while his mom drove, we used the time in the car to go over our plans.
    â€œHere’s my list of questions,” I said, taking out my notebook and showing it to Michael. “What do you think?”
    Michael’s mom passed back a plastic bag filled with freshly baked oatmeal-raisin cookies.
    â€œI figured you guys might need an after-school energy boost,” she said.
    â€œThanks, Mrs. Lawrence,” I said as I popped a cookie into my mouth. “These are delicious. I cansee where Michael gets his baking skills.”
    Michael handed me another cookie and then pointed to my notebook.
    â€œLooks good, Snacky,” he said. “I think you’ve got it covered.”
    Michael always makes up nicknames for me to tease me. Hopefully he was in a better mood today if he was joking around.
    â€œWe only have a half hour,” I said. “I don’t want to take time away from your questions. Do you have a list we can go over so we don’t repeat anything?”
    Michael tapped his temple, obviously referring to his ridiculously reliable memory. “My list of questions is right here, Martone,” he said. “And don’t worry. I won’t repeat any of your questions. I think it’s better if you take the lead on this one anyway.”
    â€œOkay, if you’re sure,” I said. “Let’s do this!”
    We headed into the police station. I was so excited and nervous, I felt like a swarm of caterpillars had cocooned in my stomach and were now emerging as butterflies. I tried to hide it and look professional. I had never been in a police station before, and it was a teeny tiny bit scary.
    â€œAre you okay?” Michael asked.
    â€œYeah, why?” I answered.
    â€œI don’t know. You look a little stone-faced,” he said.
    Thank you, Michael Lawrence, for your honest assessment. Stone-faced was definitely not the look I was going for, so I took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was a challenge, because the frenzy of activity inside the police station was somewhat overwhelming, and I could tell the place was just filled with news stories. Just then, a tall woman wearing a dark blue uniform approached us.
    â€œSamantha Martone?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” I replied, and I held out my hand when I saw her name tag.