You'll Be the Death of Me(41)

You have to tell him.

No. I cannot possibly tell him now.

“Oh wow, I’m sorry,” Cal says earnestly. “Your mom is the best. It sucks she has to deal with that.”

“But…” The words stick in my throat, and I have to force them out. “But my dad met with her in August, and he never said…he didn’t mention…”

I think back to that night, when I’d been waiting so anxiously at home to see how Dad’s meeting with Ms. Reyes went. He’d loved my idea of getting her involved in the new property, and told me that she’d seemed excited about it, too. “Ultimately, it might be a nice change from running a small business,” he’d said. “Things must have been tight for a while for her to be so underinsured. She seemed a little worn down.”

I’d chalked that up to the stress of the lawsuit, which was bad enough. It hadn’t occurred to me that Ms. Reyes might be dealing with health issues, too. Now the multiple jobs Mateo’s mentioned offhandedly throughout the day take on a different meaning. It’s not that he wants to commute into Boston to work at Garrett’s; it’s that he feels like he has to.

    “She doesn’t talk about it much,” Mateo says. He gives me a small, tired smile that’s more of a grimace. “And she was sitting down the whole time your dad was at our house. No reason he’d have guessed anything was wrong.”

“Mateo, I am so sorry.” My voice is shaking, thick with unshed tears, and he looks bemused.

“It’s not your fault she’s sick,” he says.

“No, but…” My throat closes and I trail off.

“I’m going to need directions soon,” Cal says.

I blink and wipe my eyes. “What?”

“To Charlie’s house,” he replies, and it’s only then that I notice we’re in downtown Carlton. We just passed the library where I used to spend my summer days as a kid, and we’re coming up on the corner store where Mateo bought the haul of candy he tried to share with me four years ago. “Do I go the same way I would if I were going to yours?”

My brain feels full of staticky white noise, making it hard to think clearly, so I’m grateful when Cal has to pause at a red light. I gaze around us, disoriented despite the familiar surroundings, until memory finally kicks in. “Not quite,” I say. “I mean, you could, but it’s faster if you turn left after the soccer fields. Then right on Fulkerson.”

Cal taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Any thoughts on what we do next if Charlie’s not home?”

No. I might’ve had thoughts five minutes ago, but now I’m stuck with static brain. “He’ll be there,” I say. I take out my phone, purely for something to do that doesn’t involve banging my head against the dashboard, and see yet another text from Emily.

    CALL ME. DO NOT IGNORE THIS!!!

Then she sends me a YouTube link. My finger hovers over it briefly, before I do the exact opposite of what she said and drop my phone in my lap. It’s horrible, I know, that I’ve let almost the entire school day go by without checking in with my best friend. The problem is, I have absolutely no idea what to say. How do I explain any of this? The call with Daniel was already enough of a disaster. Before I put the phone to my ear, a small part of me was hoping to hear concern in his voice. That part now feels like a sucker.

I wonder, sometimes, what my relationship with my brother would have been like if he were the older sibling, and our entire dynamic hadn’t been built on him usurping what I thought was my rightful position in the family. When we were little, he was like my shadow, following me everywhere. I never minded, though, because he was funny and imaginative and affectionate in a sweet, goofy way. He used to yell “Best sister in the world!” while trying to tackle me, but it was like getting jumped on by a puppy since he was so small and skinny back then. He outgrew me physically first, and that was okay. That was expected. It wasn’t until he started outpacing me at school that the dynamic between us changed.

If Daniel were eighteen instead of sixteen, maybe I’d feel admiration for all of his accomplishments rather than jealousy. Maybe he’d be caring and helpful toward me, instead of relishing my every misstep. And creating a few, just for the hell of it.

Cal is about to go straight when he shouldn’t, so I remind him “Right on Fulkerson,” and he swerves.

“I knew that,” he claims.

    “Okay, but slow down,” I say. “We need to take a left onto Avery Hill…right here.”

Cal makes the turn onto Charlie’s tree-lined street. It’s similar to mine: the homes are stately without being garish, the space between them is wide, and the landscaping is lush. Charlie’s house is a deep barn-red, contrasting with the whites and grays of his neighbors. “That’s it,” I say when it appears around a bend, causing Cal to brake abruptly. Not quickly enough, though, and we sail right past.

“I’ll just turn around,” Cal says. He does, and parks across the street from Charlie’s house. “Now what?” he asks.

There’s a distinctive red Jeep in the driveway. “Well, he’s home,” I say. “Or his car is, anyway. So maybe we should go over there and…knock?”

Cal makes a face. “You sure that’s a good idea? What if whoever killed Boney is after Charlie now? He seemed pretty panicked on the phone.”