Excerpt from THE SUPERNATURAL FILES OF CJ DELANEY

Supernatural CJ De laney The Files of

Carol Williams

Text copyright © 2024 by Carol Williams

All illustrations copyright © 2024 by Holiday House Publishing, Inc.

Jacket and interior illustrations by Courtney Lovett

All Rights Reserved

HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

Printed and bound in March 2024 at Sheridan Books, Chelsea, MI, USA. www.holidayhouse.com

First Edition

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 978-0- 8234-5412-9 (hardcover)

To Mom, who always believed

Finally, Something 1 “Scoopy ”

There are good things and bad things about being an ace reporter in a small college town. One good thing is you can get around on a bike, which is, after all, my main transportation. Another good thing is that you know most of the people who live there, and those same people like to talk about themselves . A lot. That helps when you’re working on a story.

The bad thing is, not much happens in a dinky little village that makes for a truly interesting news story. It’s not like there are bank robberies or murders or scandals. Of course, I don’t want those things to happen where I live, but still. It’s hard to be excited over whether the town is going to allow a McDonald’s to open (it didn’t) or whether it allows a skateboard park to be built.

Case in point: The skate park got the green light. That’s why, on a boiling-hot summer day, I was standing in a crowd at the skate park’s grand opening, just across the street from the town’s college campus. I knew a few kids from school who liked to skateboard,

but this was bananas. When I talked to one of the guys who’d organized the event, he said skateboarders from all over southwest and central Ohio were there. It sure seemed like a big deal. Just not to me. I mean, it would be if it involved something like rival gangs turning the park into a battlefield. But that was defi nitely not the case here.

As I stood in the middle of a swarm of skater boys and girls, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Something slimy remained on my bare skin in the same spot. I whirled around to see my best friend, Parker, holding two rapidly melting ice- cream cones.

“Here ya go, CJ,” he mumbled through a mouthful of Moose Tracks. He held out a cone to me.

“Ugh, dude,” I said, swiping at my shoulder. “Why ice cream? It’s a billion degrees out here!”

“I like ice cream,” he said in his matter-of-fact way. I took the cone and a soggy napkin and started licking like my life depended on it. As soon as I got the major disaster down to a minor mess, I could talk.

“We might as well leave,” I sighed. “There’s no point staying here. I mean, it’s a skate park opening— big deal. I talked to the organizers, and now I’ll write a bunch of blah-blah, turn it in, and go on to the next story. I sure hope it’s more exciting than this one.”

Parker wiped his free hand on the front of his shirt. “Your dedication to your craft is truly inspiring,” he said.

“Thanks.” I pretended he wasn’t being sarcastic. “It’s just . . . man, if only something newsworthy would happen while I’m at the paper this summer. With my luck,

a spaceship will land in the middle of downtown the day we start school, and someone else will get the scoop.”

“Well then, let’s just chase away those scoopy blues by going to my house and working on blurbs for the Juneteenth exhibit,” Parker said.

It took a moment for his words to make sense to me. Blurbs? Juneteenth exhibit? Then I remembered: Parker’s photos were going to be a part of Galahad’s Juneteenth celebration. “Oh yeah,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as unenthusiastic as I felt. Not that I wasn’t honored that my best friend wanted me to write the descriptions to go along with his photos. It was just that it couldn’t make up for the boring stuff I was going to have to write about the skate park later that day.

Parker’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “C’mon,” he said. “You like doing research. You like writing. It’s the perfect combination to help a brother out with his photo exhibit.”

I was just about to say, “Yeah, might as well,” when a scream tore through the air, so loud and piercing I could even hear it above the crowd sounds. Had the journalism gods heard me and caused something “scoopy” to happen? I sure wasn’t gonna wait to fi nd out.

“Sorry, Park, but the blurbs are gonna have to wait,” I practically shouted with joy. Parker shrugged. He was used to my mood changing from I’ll never have anything good to write to A story’s poppin’. Let’s go!

I threw my cone in the nearest trash can and started running in the direction of the scream. Parker trotted close behind me, licking ice cream off one of his arms.

The scream had come from the direction of the Galahad Grove, a nature preserve bordering one side of the skate park. The Grove part of the name was misleading. It was way bigger than just a dinky old bunch of trees. It was a huge woodland, with more than a thousand acres and lots of hiking trails, small waterfalls, and even a swinging bridge.

In seconds I reached a group of people forming a semicircle around a pale woman who seemed very shaken. I recognized her as one of mom’s regular customers at the bookstore: Mrs. Debbie Beyer. And the man standing next to her with his arm around her shoulders was Mr. Beyer.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I said, trying to push my way through the group as politely as possible. “Reporter from the Guardian here.”

I’d left Parker somewhere in the small crowd, probably still licking his arm. I placed myself in front of Mrs. Beyer and smiled at her sympathetically for a moment. Then I pulled a small notebook out of my backpack and said in my most professional voice, “Your name please?”

A faint smile crossed the woman’s face. “Mrs. Debbie Beyer, CJ.”

Of course, she knew who I was, too. Small town, remember? Still, I was learning to be a professional reporter. And professional reporters ask for names (even if they already know them).

I gave her just enough time to pull herself together a little more before I asked, “Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Beyer?”

She shuddered. But before she could say anything, Mr. Beyer spoke. He was clearly annoyed. “She’s just had a fright, CJ. Junior reporter or not, she doesn’t need to answer your questions right now.”

Geez. The press never got any love. I stood my ground, though. “I’d just like a little information, Mr. Beyer. Please.” I could wheedle with the best of ’em.

Mrs. Beyer smiled weakly. “It’s okay, Henry. I don’t mind talking to her.”

“Please tell me what happened, Mrs. Beyer.”

Her voice trembled a bit when she replied. “I’d gone for a short walk on one of the paths in the woods while I waited for my youngest son to fi nish watching a skateboard demonstration. He’s just learning and is really excited about the new skate park,” she said. “Do you know Jackson, CJ? He’s just one or two grades ahead of you.”

I nodded, trying very hard not to look impatient. Inside I was thinking, Get to the good part already, lady! My grandmother— the editor in chief of the Galahad Guardian — had told me more than once that I needed to work on being more patient while I was interviewing people.

“And . . . ?” I prodded gently.

“I was heading back to the event and almost out of the woods when I heard this terrifying sound behind me. A deep, growling sound like a wolf.”

“A wolf ?” Were there wolves in southwestern Ohio? I’d have to do some research on that.

Mrs. Beyer nodded. “I know it sounds strange, but it was exactly the sound wolves make in horror movies— all

snarly and hideous,” she said. “I slowly turned around, feeling like I was going to have a heart attack. But it wasn’t a wolf. It was a gigantic black dog standing just a few yards away. It was baring its huge, sharp teeth and slobbering. It was horrible!”

Mrs. Beyer’s eyes fi lled with tears, and she became even paler than she’d already been. Mr. Beyer squeezed her more closely and glared at me. I ignored him.

“And then what did you do?” I asked.

“I couldn’t move,” said Debbie Beyer. “It was like I was frozen in place. And suddenly the huge dog leaped right at me. Right at me! That’s when I screamed. I was sure it was going to tear me to shreds.”

The few people who hadn’t drifted away murmured in surprise.

I tried to stay cool, but my skin prickled and my heart beat a little faster, like it always does when I hear a newsworthy story. “What happened then?” I asked. I managed to keep my pen poised calmly over my notebook.

“The dog just stopped in midair,” Mrs. Beyer whispered.

I blinked. “Um, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Her voice was still faint. “It never even touched me. It was as if someone yanked an invisible leash and it landed back on the ground, turned around, and trotted away.”

Even Mr. Beyer took a step back so he could look at her. He clearly didn’t believe what he was hearing.

Once again, tears fi lled Mrs. Beyer’s eyes. “Yes, it sounds insane. But I promise you, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Maybe the heat?” Mr. Beyer said in a bewildered voice to no one in particular. He put his arm around Mrs. Beyer again. Then he looked at me darkly. “CJ, I don’t want you running off and putting a bunch of nonsense in the paper.”

I nodded politely and hoped he couldn’t tell I was sneaking glances at the woods where Mrs. Beyer had encountered the dog. Was it my imagination, or had something moved behind a tree? This was getting more scoopy by the minute! Once I got the go-ahead to chase this story, those woods would be my fi rst stop.

Mr. Beyer still seemed to feel he had to get his point across because he said, “There’s nothing more to say about this. My wife had a scare. End of story.”

End of story? Not by a long shot, I thought, and tried not to let the huge smile I felt inside spread to my face.

This Story’s MINE 2

Somebody was out in the sun too long,” Parker said as we walked away from the skate park. “Or maybe her son accidentally crashed into her at some point, and his skateboard flew into the air and hit her on the head. What a wild story. Big black dog. Man!”

I wasn’t so quick to dismiss it. “It’s not totally impossible. I mean, the woods are thick and dark, so she may not have seen it coming. Even a big dog could creep up on you pretty easily in the soft grass, especially if you’re not paying attention.”

Parker snorted. “But are you forgetting the part where the dog viciously leaps at her then does a graceful pirouette in midair because it’s yanked back by an invisible leash?”

“Okay, well that’s a little harder to explain,” I agreed. “But hey, it’s not my job to judge. It’s my job to investigate what happened and then report the facts.”

“So I guess that’s gonna be your big story, huh?” said Parker. “Woman gets attacked by gigantic black dog at the skate park grand opening?”

“Something like that. But that’s just one part of the story. I’m gonna have to dig deeper . . . fi nd out what’s going on in those woods. And try to get more details from Mrs. Beyer without Mr. Beyer around.”

Parker went on his way, and I headed to the Guardian’s office. My grandmother’s newsroom is tucked away in a little nook between a real estate broker who’s growing an Airbnb empire and a jewelry shop called Extragalactic Nebula. They were all part of what some Galahad promoters called “a thriving, charming destination.” This was really kind of a joke, since our “downtown” was just the two streets containing Lotta Lattes Café, a grocery store, a hardware store, two gas stations, a library, my mom’s bookstore, an antique store, a church, and a funeral home. There were also a lot of little gift shops where out-of-town folks liked to go. The pretty little village of Galahad was a nice stop on their way to somewhere else bigger and more exciting.

On weekend afternoons, the paper was quiet and Conti was usually the only one there. Most of the time I liked the weekday hustle and bustle of the tiny office, but now I couldn’t wait to get back to my keyboard and focus on the whole new angle for the skate park article. I’d write it up, and then I could move on to more good stuff. Starting with asking Conti to let me follow up on the black dog story and dig deeper into what might be going on.

Some people wonder if I’m qualified to tell breaking news stories at my age. That’s when I whip out a quick rundown of my bona fides.

BIO

Name: Countess Jewel Delaney II

Nickname: CJ (with a name like mine, how could I not have one?)

Age: 11

Relevant experience:

· Previous school year, in fifth grade, created and edited the Galahad Scoop at Galahad Elementary School.

· Won a Medal of Excellence for news/feature writing in the Junior Journalism Association’s Elementary Student National Media Contest.

· As a rising sixth grader, this summer I’m a junior reporter for the Galahad Guardian , our town’s local newspaper.

Add to that my plan to help my grandmother turn the Galahad Guardian into a newspaper that would get noticed. Maybe even win it a Pulitzer Prize, like the Daily Breeze in California. After all, that was a small paper, too, with only seven reporters and a circulation of 63,000.

Of course, the Guardian was even tinier than that, but the California paper didn’t have my grandmother, Countess Jewel “Conti” Delaney, running the show. And it also didn’t have Conti’s secret weapon: yours truly, Countess Jewel Delaney II.

When I entered the newsroom, the fi rst person I saw was Bix Anderson Jr. Instantly, my stomach knotted up like it always does around him. He was sitting at the conference table staring into his phone. I glanced toward his dad’s desk and saw Bix Sr. tapping on his laptop. He’s not only the lead investigative reporter at the Guardian; he

also summarizes the police reports and writes a business column called Bix on Biz. Bix Sr. got fi rst dibs on the rare big stories that happened in Galahad.

Bix Sr. was a super nice guy who was helping me learn about investigative reporting. I could even understand why he asked Conti if his son could shadow him for the summer at the paper— after all, Bix Jr. says he wants to be a reporter, too, and this was his chance to learn the ropes like I was. Still, when I heard about it, I almost told Conti it was going to have to be me or Bix Jr. (Right, like she’d be okay with me doing that.) What got me was Bix Jr. always acted like he was the one who broke the big stories instead of his dad. Yet from what I could tell so far, he preferred playing on his phone to following up on a tip or interviewing someone.

He looked up when he heard the newsroom door open and smiled at me in his bordering-on-snarky way. “Hey, Cub,” he said. Bix liked to call me Cub, as in “cub reporter.” I figured it was his way of keeping me in my place— even though he was basically in the same place. Everybody else at the paper called me CJ, like I was one of them. But Bix seemed to take every chance to needle me.

“Hey,” I said without even trying to fake enthusiasm.

Since we had writing in common, I wish I could say Bix was one of my favorite people. I wish I could say he was my writing BFF.

But here was what I could always say: he was one very annoying kid.

But even the sight of Bix Jr. couldn’t ruin my mood. I was too busy thinking of the exciting events of the

afternoon and how I’d be the one to capture them as my next news story. Not only would I get the scoop, I’d get the scoop before Bix Jr., which made it even sweeter.

“Writing about the skateboard park grand opening?” he asked. His eyes glinted, and I knew what was coming. “Exciting stuff, Cub.”

You have no idea, I wanted to say to him. But instead I just muttered, “Yeah.” I sat down at the little desk Conti had given me and started typing right away. The desk was in a dim corner of the cramped news office and was the size of a postage stamp. But it was my very own desk, just like the other staff reporters had.

I think Bix got the hint. He didn’t say anything else to me, and in just a few minutes, he and his dad left the office.

After I printed out my fi nished draft, I read it over, smiling. Yes, the journalism gods had been very good to me. Now the skate park event was just background for the bigger story to come : LOCAL WOMAN HAS TERRIFYING

ENCOUNTER WITH MYSTERIOUS, VICIOUS DOG . I made sure no one was around to see me plant a quick kiss on the sheet of paper, which I always did when my name was on a story or, as we called it in the biz, I had a byline. “Perfect,” I whispered. I walked into Conti’s office and confidently handed her the article.

Conti was sitting behind what my dad jokingly called her power desk. It did seem pretty huge in her smallish office, but it didn’t overpower her, that’s for sure. The windowsill behind her was crowded with framed photos: Dad as a little boy; Mom, Dad, Gracie, and me at various times and places over the years; Conti as a young woman

standing next to her hero, Ethel L. Payne, who was called the First Lady of the Black Press; and other pictures of Conti winning journalism awards and reporting from all over the world.

Seeing her life in pictures always reminded me that Conti’s career was amazing. And I was about to make it just a little more amazing with my news story about the black dog at the skate park opening.

She gestured for me to sit in the leather chair in front of her desk. I loved that chair. It was soft in just the right places. And now that I was getting taller, I was close to eye level with Conti— like we were seeing eye-to-eye in every way.

Still, comfy or not, the chair wasn’t helping me settle down just then. I watched as she read what I’d written about the disturbing incident at the skate park with Mrs. Debbie Beyer.

“This is just the beginning, Conti,” I said eagerly into the silence as she read my article. “I’ll need to do a lot more investigating to get to the bottom of what happened to Mrs. Beyer.” I sat back, steepling my fi ngers together in what I hoped was the same wise way I’d seen my grandmother do. “This story’s got my name written all over it.”

Conti’s pretty face showed a fl icker of a smile. “Tell me why you think this is even a story worth investigating, CJ.”

As far as I’m concerned, the answer was a no-brainer. But Conti expects her reporters to justify the time and effort they’ll need to track down a news story. Being her granddaughter didn’t make me an exception to that rule.

“Because,” I said, trying not to sound impatient that I had to explain the obvious, “she was attacked by a mysterious, gigantic black dog. No one’s reported seeing one in the area. Whose was it? What was it doing there? Who was controlling it so it didn’t actually end up attacking Mrs. Beyer? Did someone have a dog whistle only it could hear? These are important questions. And I’m the one to get the answers.”

Conti did smile this time, then quickly looked serious again. “Go on.”

I sighed. “I called an officer I know at the police station and found out the police went to the area after Mrs. Beyer reported it. They didn’t fi nd a sign of any big black dog. Not even prints where the ground was a little muddy.”

Conti nodded. “So what else did the police say?”

“They do agree that something must have been roaming around in the woods and scared Mrs. Beyer half to death. There’s no reason she would lie about it. They’re going to put a message in the Guardian asking people to call in if they see any animal that fits the description.”

My grandmother rapped her knuckles on the desk and looked thoughtful. Then she said in a tone that was unusually gentle for her, “Yes, this story may be worth following up on. And that’s why, my sweet, I’m not letting you have it.”

My mouth dropped open. Which isn’t very professional, but what can I say? I hadn’t been expecting  that. And after my great explanation, too.

“Why can’t I have it?” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Because this could be more dangerous for you than I’m comfortable with. And because your parents would

be very angry with me if I let you go after a story involving someone who was almost attacked by a vicious dog in the woods. You are, after all, still a—”

I gritted my teeth. “Please don’t say it. Don’t say ‘kid.’ ”

Okay,  I just said it, but it’s always worse when a grown-up does. Conti got it, though, because she looked at me sympathetically.

“I won’t speak that word,” she said, “but here’s the deal: you’re my precious grandchild, and we decided when I let you come here for the summer that you have to stick with stories that will never put you in even a small chance of danger. So no, I can’t let you follow up on this incident, CJ. Besides, while it’s a bit mysterious, I think it’s basically the story of a pet that lives nearby and got loose. They’ll probably fi nd the dog on someone’s farm somewhere, back in a fenced yard where it belongs.”

This is where the rubber meets the road when you’re a kid trying to make it in the grown-ups’ world. What I  wanted to do was whine and pressure Conti to let me have the story. Or try the lips-trembling, tears-welling-up-in-the- eyes routine, so maybe she’d feel sorry for me and hand it over.

But fi rst of all, Conti knew me too well to fall for the achy-breaky-heart fake. And second, another part of our deal was that she wouldn’t treat me any differently than she would her other reporters. At the  Galahad Guardian, where she’s the owner and publisher, Conti Delaney’s word is law. “No story” means “no story.”

“CJ, I also told you when we talked about you working here that you don’t need to be in such a rush for the

‘big’ stories.” Conti’s voice was still gentle. “I wanted you to join the paper this summer to experience the ins and outs of the journalism world, even in this small-town way. I want you to be part of a team with other reporters and learn from those who have much more experience than you. Having an assignment that could be dangerous— or just as likely, a waste of time— isn’t part of the plan.”

I made a grunting sound that was as close as I could get to, “Yes, ma’am.”

She lightly patted the paper on her desk. “I assigned the skate park event to you, so I’d like you to revise this and focus on the park opening. I’ll have someone else speak with Mrs. Beyer and follow up with the police.” She smiled. “Baby, you did a good job with this story. I want you to know that.”

I knew if I said another word, my voice might tremble. So I nodded politely, then quickly walked out of her office. Those darn tears— real tears—wanted to creep up on me after all. I was thankful Bix Jr. had already left the office and wasn’t around to gloat.

This was  my story. No one else could do it justice. To everyone else, someone’s pet dog got loose and almost attacked a woman. But to me it was a mystery. Mystery being: Where did the dog come from? And who had been able to stop it from attacking Mrs. Beyer?

Now, thanks to Conti and my parents, it looked like I wasn’t going to get a chance to fi nd out after all.

Chinese Food and Chuck 3

After rewriting the article so it was back to the scoopless blah-blah, I wished I had my bike with me. Now that it was time to leave the Guardian for the day, Conti was giving me a ride to my house, where she was joining us for dinner. The last thing I wanted was to give up sulking and make pleasant small talk in the car with my grandmother.

But once again I was reminded that Conti gets me. She didn’t say a word on the way home. She knew I just wasn’t in the mood, so she turned on her radio to a news station and we rode in silence.

As we glided into the driveway at our house, I saw Mrs. Gribble, our neighbor, standing in her front yard with her dog. His name is Cuddles, but he only answers to the name Chuck— nobody knows why. Mrs. Gribble was short and stout, and Chuck was pretty much the canine version of her. She was holding him tightly and making kissy faces at him while he squirmed in her plump arms like all he wanted to do was get down and go fi nd a pile of dog food.

Knowing Conti would have something to say if I wasn’t polite, I half-heartedly waved at Mrs. Gribble. She took Chuck’s paw and waved it at me. “Say hi to CJ, Chucky Cuddles,” she said. Chuck kept squirming until fi nally she set him down, smiling at him lovingly the whole time as he slowly snuffled around looking for something edible.

When Conti and I walked into the kitchen, I was immediately greeted by our dog, Nelson. He ran around my legs like a maniac then jumped up on me, yipping with excitement. He always greeted me like this. I called it his love attack. For the fi rst time in a while, I smiled.

My mom was at the counter opening boxes of takeout Chinese food while her friend Mrs. Olsen sat on a nearby stool. This was the night of the week Mom closed her bookstore early. Since Mrs. Olsen worked at the store, too, they usually got together for dinner afterward. Ever since Mrs. Olsen had started working at the store, Mom had made it a point to ask her to join us for dinner sometimes. Mrs. Olsen had a tragic story about why she lived alone. Her husband and young son had died in a car accident in the town she lived in before moving to Galahad.

I smiled at our visitor. “Hi, Mrs. Olsen.”

“Hey there,” she said. She perched on the stool like a bright little bird on a branch. She had on her usual colorful blouse, brilliant beaded jewelry, and a patterned scarf holding down her fluff of salt-and-pepper hair. She wore the kind of thick, brown leather sandals my sister, Gracie, called hippie sandals.

Mom, Conti, Gracie, Mrs. Olsen, and I were already at the dining table when Dad came home from work. We were chowing down on food from Sun Garden Chinese restaurant. It’s one of my favorite places, so at least the day was ending on a high note— food-wise anyway.

For a while we were all quiet, what with stuffing our faces. But soon everyone had eaten enough to start chatting about this and that. The grown-ups talked and laughed, and Gracie joined in because she’s under the mistaken belief that’s she’s an adult, too, instead of a just-turned-sixteen-year-old. I wasn’t saying much. I was still partly sulking, although the meal had helped my mood.

At one point Mrs. Olsen said softly, “I always have such fun with you all. Thank you for making me part of your family. It means a lot.”

Mom smiled. “We love having you, Amy.”

After we fi nished off some homemade cherry pie, Dad leaned back in his chair and said to Conti, “Mom, did you hear about the incident at the skate park?”

“Oh yes,” Conti said in her smooth voice. “CJ told me about it. She was there.”

Dad raised an eyebrow and Mom looked faintly alarmed. “What do you mean by ‘there’?” Dad asked sharply.

Conti laughed. “Don’t be so suspicious, Jamison. She was covering the skate park’s grand opening. She just happened to be around when it happened.”

“End of story, right, CJ?” Dad asked. I was really starting to hate that expression. I nodded glumly, feeling Chinese-food joy seeping out of me.

“I’m not going to write a story about it if that’s what you mean. Conti won’t let me.”

“That’s right,” Dad said. “And don’t go treating her like the bad guy. Your mom and I are part of that decision, too.”

I couldn’t take it another minute. “But what’s the big deal?” I asked, trying not to raise my voice. “It’s not like I’m going to go creeping around the woods in the dark. I know better than that! Why can’t I work on an interesting story instead of writing stupid stuff about a dumb old skate park?”

“You want to rephrase that, girlfriend?” Mom asked, but she really wasn’t expecting an answer. When one of her eyebrows went flying up almost to her hairline, I knew she meant business. That eyebrow said a lot without even speaking. She added, “And add an apology to Conti while you’re at it!”

“I’m sorry, Conti,” I murmured. I decided now was a good time to just shut my piehole.

But Dad didn’t seem to want to let it go. “Tell us why it’s such a big deal to you anyway. Why do you feel this is a scoop, CJ?”

I told everyone at the table the same thing I’d told Conti about why it could be an interesting news story.

“Wow,” Gracie piped up when I was done. “I mean, a dog starts to attack a woman then changes its mind. Woo-wee, that’s a doozy of a story.”

I glared at my sister. “Of course you don’t get it. The only thing that’s newsworthy to you is whether there’s a new nail color coming out next week.”

“Okay, you two, simmer down,” Mom said. Conti spoke up during the brief silence. “CJ, I do get it. I truly do. I had the same drive to tell big stories when I was your age— and even after I became a lot older! It’s in your blood, and I can’t fault you for that. But it’s all about being safe, baby girl. I can’t tell you how many times I found myself in a pickle because I wouldn’t follow others’ advice. Or I ignored what my editor told me to do or not to do.”

I looked at my grandmother admiringly, thinking for the millionth time that she was the bravest person in the world. I always loved hearing about her career as the Delaney family’s OG ace reporter.

“That’s true,” Dad said, grinning at his mother. “I might not have been born if some of the stuff your grandmother did had gone sideways.”

Conti raised one eyebrow at him, just like my mom. “You don’t really have room to talk, young man. I had to get you out of plenty of daredevil scrapes.”

Okay, now this was getting even more interesting. “Like what?” I asked eagerly.

Just then, the phone rang. Mom picked it up and almost immediately held the receiver away as a highpitched squawk blasted out of it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gribble. I can’t understand what you’re saying about Chuck.”

I sat up straighter. Something was up.

There was a brief silence, and Mom said, “Hello, Mr. Gribble. I couldn’t hear what Mrs. Gribble was saying because she’s so upset. Something happened to Chuck— is that right?”

I could hear Mr. Gribble’s gravelly voice, although I couldn’t make out his words. “Oh my,” Mom said. “That’s terrible! I’ll send Jamison over right now.”

She promptly hung up. “Our neighbor’s dog has vanished. Mr. Gribble told me they always let Chuck out for his nightly poo.”She paused and said with a slight smile, “His words, not mine. A few minutes later when they went to let Chuck back in, he was gone.”

“That’s awful!” said Mrs. Olsen. “Are you sure they don’t want us all to help look for him?”

Mom confi rmed that the Gribbles had already tried looking and now wanted to see if Dad could help— although it wasn’t exactly clear how. Gracie left to go to a friend’s house while Mom, Conti, and Mrs. Olsen went into the living room to talk some more. Meanwhile, it was my turn to do my favorite thing in the world: wash the dishes.

(News flash: it was NOT my favorite thing in the world.)

Still, since I couldn’t escape cleaning the kitchen, it gave me time to think. I’d just seen Mrs. Gribble with Chuck a few hours earlier. What could’ve happened to him? And why would he leave such a cushy life?

Then I shrugged. I was curious, but still, it was just a missing dog. Not exactly big news.

But the next day? Now that was a different story.