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typing copy. What he wasn’t thinking about was the road. My dad drives like a maniac. I’m used to it, but for a first-timer like Kevin it must have been rough. I could actually hear his fingers crushing the cheap leather seat as he held on for dear life.
    I almost felt sorry for him. But I had bigger things to worry about than Kevin Jordan. I’d just agreed to spend the summer playing detective, and I was pretty sure Sammy was going to want to tag along. I should have said no, but Mr Delgado made me too angry to think straight. Isighed. It was too late to back out, I’d just have to do my best. At least Dad would be happy. He was getting first-class access to Delgado Industries.
    From Sammy’s, it was quicker to get to our house than to Kevin’s. We live on Passfield Avenue, near South Street, so Dad dropped me off first. He stopped the Plymouth in the middle of the street and asked Kevin to get my bike out of the back.
    I climbed out carefully, watching for traffic, and made my way around the car on to the pavement. It was littered with puddles.
    Dad rolled down his window. ‘I’ll be back soon. I’ll pick up some dinner on my way home,’ he said.
    Kevin handed me my bike and then took a step backward, away from Dad’s car.
    â€˜I think I can walk home from here,’ he said when my dad waved for him to get back in.
    â€˜No, get in. I insist.’
    My dad was a hard man to say no to.
    While Kevin got into the front seat and fastened his seat belt, Dad leant out of the window and waved me closer.
    â€˜He seems nice.’ Dad winked at me. Then he pulled his head back into the car and drove away.
    It had been a long day, the kind of day that called for a hot bath and a glass of cold milk. I trudged up the three concrete steps to our front door, dragging my bike beside me. I was still soaked to the bone, and shivering despitethe muggy heat. The Delgados’ air conditioning system had done a real number on me. My fingers looked like raisins.
    Our house was a small two-bedroom brick-fronted building. Wrought-iron bars protected the ground floor windows from anyone who wanted to do more than have a peek inside. It wasn’t much, but it was home. I shoved my key in the deadbolt, but it was already open, which was odd. Dad always locked the deadbolt. I used the second key on the Yale lock and slowly pushed it open.
    The front door opened on to our combined living room and kitchen. Living room to the left. Kitchen to the right. A waist-high counter separated the two sections. The deadbolt being unlocked had put me on edge, or maybe I was just too tired to think properly. Whatever the reason, I noticed the refrigerator was open and I panicked.
    I jumped around the corner of the counter to the kitchen side of the room and shouted, throwing my backpack at the shape crouching in front of the fridge. I immediately wished I hadn’t. The shape was my twin sister Della. Della screamed and jumped. The carton she’d been holding arced through the air in a low parabola: y+x 2 =0. Then it hit the ground and exploded, showering me and Della and most of the downstairs in semi-skimmed milk.
    â€˜What the heck, Alice?’ Della said, flicking milk drops off her hands. Each flick was a miniature performance of her displeasure.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s been one of those days.’
    When our parents split up a few years ago, Mom took Della and me with her to New York City. Mom’s a costume designer. I fitted in with her showbiz life like a pickle on an ice cream sundae, so I learnt how to do my own washing and moved back to Philly to be with Dad. But Della loved the city. She’d always wanted to be a star on Broadway. She’s got a few parts too. Orphan Number Three and First Street Urchin were among her finer performances.
    Most summers, Della and Mom would go upstate to do summer stock theatre productions, but this year Mom had