You'll Be the Death of Me(42)

“Then he might need help,” Mateo says, unclicking his seat belt. “Why don’t you guys stay here and I’ll talk to him.”

“By yourself?” I twist in my seat to look at him, confused and alarmed. “You can’t! It might be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful. Back soon,” he says. Before I can argue further, he shuts the door and walks briskly away from the car.

Cal watches his progress up the St. Clairs’ driveway with a thoughtful expression. “Ivy, can we talk about how weird Mateo is being?” he asks.

“Weird how?” I ask.

“Like how he barely answered any questions about being on that list. And now all of a sudden he wants to separate? What’s up with that?” Mateo is at the St. Clairs’ front door now, alternately knocking and ringing the doorbell.

    “He’s being brave,” I say, and Cal’s eyes practically roll out of his head.

“You didn’t say that about me when I took off,” he reminds me.

I have no good answer for that, so I focus on Charlie’s front door. “It doesn’t look like anyone is home,” I say just as Mateo twists the doorknob. The door opens and he steps inside, closing it behind him.

Cal stiffens in his seat and peers through the windshield. “Did somebody let him in?” he asks. “Or did he…”

“Go in on his own?” I finish. “I think he did.” My heart starts beating uncomfortably fast. I don’t know why, but watching Mateo disappear into Charlie’s house is the worst feeling I’ve had in a while—and that’s saying something, considering the day we’ve had.

“Okay then,” Cal says, his eyes on the door. “Should we wait?”

“I guess.” We lapse into silence and I stare at the dashboard clock, watching its numbers change with agonizing slowness. Cal starts fiddling with the car radio, turning up the volume whenever he lands on a song he likes. Then, within a few seconds of listening, he turns it down and switches stations again.

When five minutes and what feels like forty songs have passed, I can’t stand it any longer. “I think we should follow him,” I say.

Cal exhales, and I can’t tell if it’s with relief or frustration. “You really like following people, don’t you? That’s, like, a thing with you.”

    “Only in certain circumstances,” I say, reaching for my door handle. “Are you coming?”

“Of course.” He turns off the engine, and I feel a surge of gratitude until he has to get one last jab in. “Wouldn’t want you to think I’m not brave.”

The street is perfectly quiet and peaceful, the only sound around us the occasional chirp of a bird. Charlie lives in the kind of neighborhood that requires dual incomes, so nobody’s home in the middle of the day. The only car within sight is his Jeep.

“Hold on a sec,” Cal says. He pops his trunk and, to my surprise, pulls out a baseball bat. “Let’s bring this along just in case.” He holds it carefully, at an angle that makes me think he’s never tried to actually hit a ball with it.

“Why do you have that?” I ask as we start toward Charlie’s house. I can’t picture Cal playing pickup games in his downtime.

“Prop for a new web comic I’m working on,” he says. “About a spider who finds a bat left behind in a field and decides to start his own league.”

“So it’s like Spider-Man but with baseball?”

“No.” Cal looks annoyed. “It’s nothing like Spider-Man. The spider isn’t radioactive, or a superhero, and there aren’t any humans. Just different kinds of bugs. Playing baseball.”

We step onto the perfect smoothness of the St. Clairs’ driveway, which is a welcome change from the cobblestone sidewalks I’ve been tripping over all day. “How do they lift the bat?” I ask. Cal raises his eyebrows questioningly, and I add, “The bugs. If they don’t have superstrength. It would crush them.”

“Well, obviously there’s a fantasy element,” Cal replies.

“Hmm,” I say, my eyes scanning the picture-perfect suburban home in front of us. It feels deceptively quiet.

    “What do you mean, hmm?” Cal asks.

“I don’t know. When I think about what you were creating a few years ago, it sounds kind of…” I was about to say basic, but then we pass Charlie’s Jeep, and its windows are so spotless that I can see our reflections in them—including Cal’s hurt expression.

Oh no. I’ve been so busy trying to distract myself from the twin stresses of what Mateo told us about his mom, and whatever might be waiting in Charlie’s house, that I almost forgot how nobody needs my unfiltered opinions. “I guess I just really like your older stuff,” I finish hastily. “I’m probably biased.”

“You sound exactly like Lara,” Cal mutters.

I point a warning finger at him. “Do not disrespect me like that.”

“Well, she said…” Cal trails off as Charlie’s front door looms in front of us. “Hold on a sec. Let’s think this through. Are we breaking and entering?”

“No. Just entering.”

“Still. Do you think this is a good idea? Walking into someone’s house?”