The evening wraps around our house like a comforting blanket, trapping the scent of Mom's cooking (stewed chicken!) and Dad's pipe smoke that drifts occasionally from his study. Through my bedroom window, I can see stars beginning to poke through the darkening sky—tiny pinpricks of light, like clues in the vast mystery of the universe. I sit at my desk, hair still damp from my bath, wearing my favorite flannel pajamas. My detective notebook lies open before me, its lined pages ready to receive the official record of today's case.

  The root beer float at the soda fountain had been everything we hoped for—cold, creamy, and fizzy all at once. Karen somehow managed to get ice cream on her nose, and Ollie worried about getting home late until the last spoonful. It was a perfect celebration for a mystery well solved.

  But now comes the part that's just for me: the joyous documentation, analysis, and permanent record of what happened and what it might mean.

  My bedroom is my sanctuary, my personal detective agency headquarters. Dad helped me arrange it just so, with my desk positioned to catch the morning sun and my bookshelf filled with the Nancy Drew collection Mom started for me, plus a few more grown-up mysteries Dad slips me when he thinks Mom isn't looking. On the wall above my desk hangs a map of Brightvale that I've slowly been annotating with colored pins—red for suspicious incidents, blue for solved cases, and yellow for ongoing mysteries. So far, there are more red pins than blue, but I'm working on that.

  In the corner sits my "evidence trunk," actually an old hatbox Mom gave me, where I keep special items related to past investigations: the marble that helped solve The Case of Mrs. Henderson's Missing Cat, the unusual feather from The Mystery of the Backyard Visitor, and now, sealed in a small envelope, the blue-gray thread from today. Each item in the trunk holds a story, a piece of the puzzle that led to a solution.

  I pull my notebook closer and uncap my fountain pen—a Christmas gift from Dad, who said every good detective needs a reliable writing instrument.

  In my neatest handwriting, I begin: "Case File #001 (1943)—The Locket That Wasn't Stolen!"

  I pause, considering the title. Mrs. Abernathy's locket wasn't exactly stolen—more like accidentally lost and then trapped. But "The Case of the Radiator-Trapped Locket" doesn't have the same ring to it. Furthermore, we were unaware it wasn't a stolen item until we began our investigation. I decide to keep the original title (possibly revisit!) but add a note below:

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  "(Actual conclusion: Accidental loss. Locket fell into the classroom radiator, possibly during the morning science demonstration)."

  Beneath that, I begin my account of the day's events, writing carefully to include all relevant details.

  I describe Mrs. Abernathy's dramatic reaction to the missing locket, our strategic planning session in the cloakroom, Karen's brilliant distraction at the fountain, and our search of the classroom. I pay special attention to the retrieval method, giving Ollie full credit for his gum-and-ruler innovation.

  "Suspect analysis," I write next, tapping my pen against my chin as I consider. "None required. No actual theft occurred. However, keep an eye on Butch regardless."

  But then I remember the thread, and my pen hovers over the page. I reach into my evidence trunk and retrieve the small envelope. Opening it carefully, I tip the thread onto my desk and examine it under my magnifying glass.

  It's still as I remembered—soft wool in that distinctive not-quite-blue, not-quite-gray shade. High quality, too. The kind of wool you'd find in an expensive sweater or scarf.

  I add a new section to my notes:

  "Unexplained wool thread. Blue-gray. Possible lead for something?"

  But lead for what?

  And there's something else, too—something I heard today but didn't connect until now.

  Missing supplies.

  Veronica Vane would advise following the thread, both literally and metaphorically. She'd also say something snappy about wool pulling and eyes, but I haven't worked out that line yet.

  Speaking of Veronica Vane, I have her latest adventure half-written.

  "Veronica Vane and the Menace in the Mist," where she tracks a jewel thief through foggy city streets. I'll work on that tomorrow, adding details inspired by today's real investigation. Of course, Vane would have solved the locket case in half the time, and she'd already know precisely what the thread meant.

  But that's the difference between fiction and reality. Real detective work means patience, observation, and sometimes waiting for more clues to appear. Dad taught me that. "Most cases aren't solved in a day, Lucy-girl," he told me once. "Sometimes you have to let the evidence percolate, like Mom's coffee in the morning."

  Next, I incorporate a concluding statement into the case file for today:

  "The locket was found, the mystery solved, and Mrs. Abernathy's cookies were excellent! Had Veronica been present, she would have nodded, winked, and declared the case closed.

  I close my notebook with a satisfying thump and cap my pen. I'm content with today's victory. A mystery solved, even if it wasn't the grand theft I initially imagined. And suppose another mystery is already taking shape on the horizon.

  In any case, that's how it goes when you're Lucy Sinclair, a fifth-grade detective!

  Untying my lucky ribbon, I carefully place it beside my notebook, ready for my next investigation. After all, a good detective is always prepared.

  And in Brightvale, you never know when the following case might begin.