You'll Be the Death of Me(19)

    Oh God. The body.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Ever since we left Lara’s studio, I’ve been telling myself that we can’t be sure what we saw. Maybe that guy was just passed out, or sleeping. Playing a joke. None of those possibilities made much sense, but I clung to them anyway. “So that means…if we saw…if the body was…” My throat closes on Boney’s name, refusing to give it up.

“Unidentified,” Mateo says quickly. But not like the word brings him any real comfort.

The reporter levels his gaze at the camera. “This anonymous source stated that they became concerned after seeing a young, blond woman inject the man with a syringe, after which he immediately became unresponsive,” he continues. “The building, which is not currently occupied, does not have security cameras enabled, so the public is being asked to call with any information related to a blond woman, described as attractive and possibly in her early twenties, who may have been in the area during this time.”

Two things happen at once. Mateo pauses the television, freezing the reporter’s face on-screen, and there’s a sudden gasp to my right. When I turn, Ivy is sitting straight up, her hand on her chest and her pale ponytail spilling over one shoulder. She stares at me, then at Mateo, then down at the booth she’s been passed out in since we got here.

“What. Is. Happening?” she demands.





IVY


At first, I have no idea where we are. I don’t remember anything, except leaving school this morning with Cal and Mateo. Both of them are staring at me like I just sprouted a second head—which would be unfortunate, since the first one is pounding painfully.

And then, with a sickening rush, I remember everything.

“Oh my God.” I jump to my feet, my heart in my throat. “What did we…why are we…where are we?” I gaze around wildly until my eyes land on a wall full of fluorescent beer signs. I’m pretty sure I’d remember those if I’d ever been here before. “What is this place?”

“Sit down before you pass out again. I’ll get you some water,” Mateo says.

I start to protest that I’m fine, but I’m already swaying with too much residual wooziness to pull it off. I collapse back into the bench behind me as Mateo heads toward some kind of counter. A bar, I realize when he lifts one side. We’re in a bar. One where Mateo is moving around with familiar ease. “Is this Garrett’s?” I ask.

    Cal, who’s been sitting silently all this time, gives me a small, crooked smile. “Well, your brain’s still working. That’s good news. Do you remember why you fainted?”

“There was a syringe,” I say with a shudder. “I saw it before I could—”

“Here.” Mateo sits across from me and puts a glass of water between us. “Drink this first. Give yourself a minute.”

I do, partly due to raging thirst, and partly because it’s nice, at this particular moment in time, to feel like someone’s taking care of me. But there are too many questions crowding my mind to stay quiet for long. And with Mateo and Cal both looking so grave, I have to ask the most important one. “What happened to the guy on the floor?” I burst out.

Mateo and Cal exchange glances. “We don’t actually know,” Cal says. Mateo picks up my empty glass, grabs two more on a nearby table, and brings them back to the bar. “We didn’t get a chance to check. After you passed out, things got complicated. Well, more complicated.”

“More complicated?” I echo. “How so?”

Cal drums his fingers on the table in front of him. “All of a sudden the police showed up with, like, sirens blaring. Next thing we knew, they were breaking down the door and storming up the stairs and we just—you know.” He slides a finger under his collar and tugs it away from his neck. “We figured they had the situation under control, so we…left.”

I blink at him. “You left,” I repeat.

“Yeah.” Cal licks his lips. He’s ghost pale, making the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks more pronounced than usual. “Through the back entrance.”

    I can’t help myself; I’m on my feet again, pacing the scarred wooden floor. “You didn’t talk to the police first?” I ask.

“No,” Cal says.

“Let me get this straight.” My voice rises. “So what you’re telling me is—the two of you decided to flee a crime scene?”

Cal just licks his lips again, and I turn toward Mateo. He rests his forearms on the counter, looking like a world-weary bartender ready to listen to whatever tale of woe I’m about to spin. “How could you possibly think that was a good idea?” I ask accusingly.

Mateo’s jaw ticks. “Look, it was an intense situation. The cops were coming, and we had no idea why. We had to make a fast decision, and those of us who were still conscious made it. Sorry if it’s not what you would’ve done, but we couldn’t exactly consult you.”

A protest dies on my lips as I meet his tense gaze and realize I’m not being fair to him. Back in middle school, when the three of us used to wander through the Carlton Mall, Mateo was the only one who’d ever get followed around by security. A guard even searched his backpack once. Mateo just stood there, stone-faced and silent, while the guard pulled out battered notebooks, pens, a bunch of hopelessly tangled earbuds, and a hoodie before handing it all back without an apology. So I can understand—better late than never—why he didn’t want to stay in that studio. Still, I can’t stop pacing, stalking an agitated path between Cal’s table and the bar. “Okay, but we should at least tell someone that we saw Boney go in—”