You'll Be the Death of Me(22)

And the whiskey is already gone.

Warmth suffuses my chest, filling me with the same comforting sensation I get when I’m hanging out in our family room with Dad. Him at his desk, working, and me curled up in a chair, reading. Safe and sound. Then the feeling disappears as I think about Boney’s parents, and how this morning must have felt like any other day. They probably went off to work like parents always do, rushed and preoccupied, never imagining the news they’d get a few hours later.

I briefly squeeze my eyes shut as pressure builds behind them. You can’t, I remind myself. Breakdowns are for later, when we’re out of this mess. I breathe deeply for a few beats, then ask Mateo, “What should we do now?”

“I don’t know,” he says, turning the black phone over in his hand. “You’re right, we need to get this to the police somehow. If it’s Boney’s, maybe there’s something in his messages, or his calls, that would explain why he was at that building.”

    “See if you can open it,” I urge. “I bet he has a really basic passcode. Try 1-2-3-4.”

Mateo does, tapping at the screen, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Try his name,” I suggest. But before Mateo can, Cal emerges from the restroom. He’s carefully rolling up his sleeves, a classic Cal move when he’s about to say something that he knows isn’t going to go over well.

“So.” Cal clears his throat. “I have to go for a little bit.”

“Go?” Mateo and I say in unison. “Go where?” I add. When Cal doesn’t answer right away, my temper starts to rise. “You can’t just leave, you know. We’re in a situation.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Cal mutters, like the sulky four-year-old he turns into whenever someone tries to talk him out of doing something stupid.

“Are you seeing her?” I demand. “The blond with access to a murder den?”

“I never said she was blond,” Cal says defensively.

I snort. “You didn’t have to. Does she know Boney?”

“She…look, it’s complicated. I can explain, but I need to talk to her first.” Cal pulls his phone from his pocket. “She’s not far from here, so I’m going to head over there, and then I’ll come back and we can figure out what to do next. The Haymarket T stop is near here, right?”

He starts to move, but I spring up and block his path. “You can’t be serious,” I protest, but before I can gather steam, Mateo puts a hand on my arm.

“It’s all right, Ivy. Let him go.”

    “What?” I gape at him, and Cal takes the opportunity to skirt around me.

“We’re all stressed,” Mateo says. “It’ll only get worse if we start arguing with one another.” He picks up my empty shot glass and heads for the bar, ducking beneath it so he can rinse the glass out in the sink. Cal follows him, and for the first time I notice a doorway behind the bar area leading to a small set of stairs. “I’m sure Cal has a good reason for leaving.”

“I do. I do,” Cal says, sidling past Mateo. “I’ll be back in an hour, tops. Probably less. I’ll, um, knock three times on the door so you’ll know it’s me.”

Mateo suppresses a sigh as he dries the glass. “Just text us, Cal.”

“Roger that,” Cal says, hurrying down the stairs. He disappears, and a moment later, I hear the creak of hinges and the slam of a door.

I stand with my arms crossed, feeling helpless and wordless. Well, I have words, but I find myself unable to say them. Mateo is my kryptonite, and not only because I had a crush on him years ago. “So we’re just going to wait here, then?” I ask, unable to keep a note of resentment from creeping into my voice.

Mateo finishes drying the shot glass, then carefully folds the bar towel and places it under the counter. “Of course not,” he says. “We’re going to follow him.”





MATEO


Cal’s bright red hair makes him easy to track. Ivy and I catch up to him a few blocks from Garrett’s, passing a familiar area that hosts a farmers’ market on weekends. My mother is a city person at heart, born and raised in the Bronx, and she used to take me to downtown Boston all the time when I was a kid. Usually it was just the two of us, or the three of us once Autumn came. But occasionally we’d be joined by my dad and, twice a year, by Ma’s entire extended family when they came to visit.

My grandmother liked to use the time as a recruiting trip. At some point in the day, she’d always look around and sniff, “Cute, but not a real city. You must miss that, Elena.”

Ma was the only Reyes kid who’d ever left New York, accepting a softball scholarship to Boston College and never looking back. My grandmother managed to limit her complaints when Ma was married, but after the divorce happened and my dad hit the road, her phone calls got more frequent. And now, with Spare Me closed and Ma’s osteoarthritis diagnosis—even though she hasn’t told my grandmother how bad it is—we hear from her almost daily. “Let us help you,” she urges. “Come home.”

    Ma’s reply never changes. “I am home. My children were born here.” She always says that, my children, like there’s no difference between Autumn and me. And my grandmother has never questioned that, even though Autumn isn’t a blood relative. Gram feels the same way.