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‘striped.’ ”
    “You’re too sensitive, Maggie. Striped patterns are my favorite. That’s all I do, practically.” She bit her bottom lip. “Anyway, it was only a thought.”
    “Keep thinking,” I said as I headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Chapter 7
    ♦     ♦     ♦
    When I went to collect Preston after school on Friday, I found Isabel’s apartment in shambles. The couch cushions were askew, clothes were spilled from her coat closet, and her living room rug was half rolled up, revealing a patch of wood floor that was distinctly lighter than the rest.
    “What happened?” I asked Preston, who was lounging on his dog bed under the window.
    His bored expression told me—quite clearly—nothing new.
    I once read somewhere that dogs have a sixth sense about danger. When they get scared, their fur spikes and their tails curl between their legs. Sometimes they bark like crazy. And if things seem really bad, they’ll whimper.
    Preston looked perfectly at home, which should’ve brought relief.
    But the place was so eerily silent, it made my spine tingle. It just didn’t make any sense. Where did Isabel go when she disappeared? How could someone so loud and large seemingly vanish in an apartment so small and cramped?
    “Hello?” I called out in vain. “Isabel?”
    My voice seemed to echo. But it had to be my imagination. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
    Preston stood, stretched, and lumbered over.
    “Where is she?” I asked him as I crouched down to scratch his neck with both hands.
    Suddenly someone knocked on the door. It made me jump. And the next thing I knew, something creaked and slammed and then Isabel came waltzing out of her bedroom, like everything was completely normal.
    “Oh, hi, Maggie.” She seemed surprised to see me, yet managed to shift from a healthy stride to a painful-looking limp in half a heartbeat. “You’re early today. I didn’t even hear you come in.”
    I shrugged, not wanting to tell her my true reason for being ahead of schedule. I was avoiding the Pizza Den. No way could I face Milo after yesterday.
    Isabel hobbled past me to open the door.
    It was Chloe, who lives on the second floor. Chloe’s a full-time librarian and a part-time drummer in a retro punk band called the Dewey Decibels. They perform every weekend—sometimes in the city and sometimes in Brooklyn. She keeps inviting me to shows but they always happen past my bedtime. Plus, I’m only twelve (or will be tomorrow) and I can’t get into bars.
    I have heard her sing, though. Usually when she’s in the shower because the sound travels up along the pipes. Her voice is so pretty and professional-sounding, sometimes I think it’s the radio I’m listening to.
    “Hi, Chloe,” said Isabel. “Lovely of you to stop by. Can I get you some coffee?”
    “No, I’m off caffeine, plus I’m already late for rehearsal.” Chloe waved her drumsticks as if she needed proof. Her hair was long, blue-black, and shiny, and it bounced whenever she moved. “I need to talk to you about something—mice.”
    Isabel gasped and brought one hand to her chest, like the mere mention of any rodent would send a thousand swarming. “Dreadful creatures.” She shuddered.
    Chloe nodded. “I agree. And I’m pretty sure they’ve moved in.”
    “You mean here?” Isabel asked. “Impossible.”
    “I heard something scurrying around in the walls last night.”
    “Are you sure it wasn’t the television?”
    Chloe nodded. “Positive. There was definitely movement. It sounded pretty loud. Kind of clumsy, too.”
    Isabel reeled back as if offended. “Well, I can’t say I have any idea what you’re talking about.”
    When Isabel gets upset, she cops a British accent, and this was one of those times.
    Chloe must have known this, too, because she didn’t even blink. “They might even be raccoons. My boss lives on Fifteenth Street and she found five of them in her basement one night. It was quite the