You'll Be the Death of Me(57)

I’m not my father, after all.

The parking lot is right next to the road, and the sound of cars roaring by at high speed makes it impossible to talk as Ivy and I make our way inside Uncle Al’s. The noise level is almost as high in there; a TV blares in the corner of the entryway, and loud conversation spills over from the bar. The air smells like fryer grease and stale beer. There’s a woman my mom’s age sitting at a stool beside a hutch with a stack of large menus, and she gives us a confused once-over as we approach. Uncle Al’s is a restaurant, not just a bar, so theoretically we could be there to eat, but I doubt we fit the typical customer profile.

    “Party of two?” the woman asks uncertainly.

“No. I’m looking for my cousin,” I say. “She works for the knife-sharpening place, Sorrento’s? She’s supposed to be in your kitchen now, or soon.”

“Hmm.” The hostess purses her lips. “Can’t say I know anything about that. Let me get a manager for you.”

“Thanks,” I say as she rounds the corner into the bar. Ivy turns her attention to the TV screen, which shows the Red Sox at batting practice.

“Gotta love sports bars,” she murmurs. “They’re not big on the news, so I probably won’t have to see my face plastered on-screen while we’re here.” Her forehead knits up. “Do you really think that tip might’ve been called in by the person who killed Boney?”

“I don’t see why we should trust someone who won’t even give their name.” I lean against the hutch and think back to when Cal and I first watched Dale Hawkins this morning. “Plus, it’s weird how the tipster called the police and Dale’s show, isn’t it?” I say. “Not even the regular news, which might’ve fact-checked it a little better. Like they wanted that description out far and wide and fast.”

“Yeah,” Ivy says, her eyes still fixed on the television. “You’re right. And it worked, didn’t it? Everyone’s talking about me instead of looking for the actual killer. I don’t know, though.” She scuffs the toe of her shoe against the floor. “Part of me still wants the tip to be about Ms. Jamison.” I raise my eyebrows, and she scuffs harder. “I guess because if it is, then it’s more her fault I got dragged into this than my own.”

    “None of this is your fault,” I say. “Anyway, somebody sent Dale Hawkins links to Ishaan and Zack’s YouTube videos, remember? You could blame her for that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know that had to be Ishaan.”

The front door bursts open then, framing two red-haired figures against the bright sunshine outside: Cal and Autumn. “Found her,” Cal says breathlessly.

Autumn’s eyes widen when she catches sight of me. “What happened to your face? Did you get into a—”

Before she can finish, I’ve yanked my cousin into a bone-crushing hug. It’s the first I’ve ever given her that’s not casual and one-armed, and it surprises me as much as it does her. Relief floods my veins, and for a few seconds, all I can think is She’s okay. She’s okay.

As long as she’s okay, we can figure out the rest.

“Mateo, what the hell?” Autumn’s voice is muffled against my shoulder, and bewildered enough that I know Cal hasn’t had a chance to explain anything. “Are you all right?”

“I am now,” I say, releasing her. “But we have a lot to talk about.”





MATEO


“Ow!” Autumn shrieks, shaking her wrist. “Goddamn it, that hurts.”

“Stop punching the wall, then,” I say as Ivy and Cal stare at my cousin with twin expressions of alarm. We’re all sitting in the back of the murder van, surrounded by boxes of knives and sharpening tools, because the windowless interior feels safer than Cal’s car.

And also so Autumn can lose her shit in private.

“I can’t,” Autumn grits out. “I’m too. Fucking. Upset!” The last word is a scream, and she lets her fist fly again with another yelp of pain. “Boney, oh my god, Boney.” True to form, Autumn hadn’t checked her phone all day, so we had to be the ones to break the news about Boney to her. She’s not, to put it mildly, taking it well.

“That poor, stupid kid. Oh my God, I hate this. I hate myself. I hate you.” Her voice rises on the last word as she turns and punches me in the arm, hard enough that I’ll have a bruise tomorrow. “I hate you, you asshole! Why did you let me do this?”

    I don’t answer her, because she doesn’t need an answer, but Ivy pipes up, “You can’t blame Mateo for—”

“I know that, Ivy!” Autumn yells, hammering her fists on the floor.

“Seriously, you’re gonna break something,” I say. “Either your hands or the van.”

Ivy and Cal are both gazing around as though they’re trying to figure out how to escape while simultaneously hiding all the knives, but the thing is—this is how Autumn deals. Ma was constantly patching up the drywall in her room when she first moved in. It used to freak me out, too, until I realized that you have to let her get it out of her system.

“I tried so hard to be careful,” Autumn says. Her voice chokes off on the last word, and she takes a few deep breaths before continuing. “I only have one customer. One of the guys I work with at Ziggy’s Diner gets migraines that his doctor won’t treat, so he takes the Oxy for that. I thought I could keep an eye on him, make sure nothing bad happened, and everything would be okay.” She lets out a frustrated moan and pummels the floor again. “And I told Boney not to go to Boston. That deal was all kinds of sketchy. He promised he wouldn’t!”