“Maybe they saw you going upstairs and got confused,” Mateo says.
“Do you think…is there any way Boney could’ve done that to himself? Like an overdose?” Cal rubs his temple and glances my way. “I mean, we were just talking about this, right? Drugs are everywhere, even in Carlton.”
“But we’re not in Carlton,” I point out. “Why would Boney go to Boston at ten o’clock in the morning to get high? He could’ve done that a lot closer to home.”
I turn toward Mateo to see if he agrees, but his eyes are on the floor. “Did you see anyone else in the building?” he asks in a low voice.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Or hear anyone?” he presses.
I’m about to say No again, but then I pause, thinking. I was full of adrenaline when I charged through the front door, determined to find Boney and tell him off. I had no idea where he was, but somehow I went straight to him. How did I do that? What made me turn left, and go up four flights of stairs? “Maybe,” I say, tugging harder at my ponytail. “I think I did hear…something. A noise that drew me upstairs. Movement, or footsteps.” My memory becomes clearer, my voice more certain. “It sounded like someone was there.”
“Good thing you didn’t run into them,” Mateo says grimly.
A chill runs down my spine at the words. I glance at Cal, but his head is down, staring at his phone, and all of a sudden my mind is clear and I realize what has been obvious the whole time. “Wait a minute,” I say, my voice so sharp that he looks up. “That girl. The one who uses the studio. Is she blond?” Cal blanches, and I want to smack my own forehead for not thinking of her sooner. “She is, isn’t she?”
“She wasn’t there,” Cal says quickly.
“Is. She. Blond?” I bite out.
Cal grows paler still. We’re exploring heretofore unknown levels of pastiness, with no end in sight. “She…I…I have your phone,” he says.
It’s an obvious attempt at changing the subject, but it still makes me pause. “What?”
Cal digs into his pocket and pulls out a last-generation iPhone in a thick black case. “You dropped it when you fainted, but we found it. Here.”
I take the unfamiliar case gingerly. “This isn’t mine,” I say, unzipping my bag and pulling out my own phone in its rose-gold plaid case. “Mine is right where I left it. So this is…”
“Shit,” Mateo says, taking it from my hand. “This must be Boney’s.”
Cal gulps. “Or whoever killed him.”
We stare at the phone in silence for a beat. “That is…it’s evidence,” I say haltingly. “We need to return it.”
Mateo’s brow furrows. “To the scene of the crime? How do you suggest we do that?”
“We could—mail it, maybe? With a note?” I suggest.
Cal stands abruptly, his chair scraping noisily behind him. “I need the bathroom,” he says.
Mateo points over his shoulder. “Left of the television.”
“Thanks. Be right back.”
I watch Cal leave, waiting until I hear the sound of a door swinging shut before I turn to Mateo and hiss, “What is going on with him?”
“I don’t know,” Mateo says. “But something is definitely up with that girl. He refuses to talk about her. Won’t answer the simplest questions.”
He’s still holding the black-cased phone, and I know I should keep pressing him about getting it back to the police. Or offer a theory about what’s happening with Cal. But I can’t bring myself to do either of those things. I’m too nervous, too confused, and too plain exhausted. Instead, I gaze at the row of bottles behind the bar and say, “Am I the only one who could use a drink right about now?”
Mateo laughs, flashing the dimples that only appear when he’s caught off guard. When I was thirteen and my crush was at its most intense, I used to live for pulling that smile out of him. “Ivy Sterling-Shepard. Booze before noon? You’ve changed.”
“Extenuating circumstances,” I say. I’m not sure if he takes me seriously—or if I even am serious—but he crosses over to the bar and ducks beneath it.
“What’ll it be?” he asks, sweeping a hand in front of the bottles.
“Maker’s Mark,” I say.
“A whiskey girl, huh?” His lips quirk. “You’re full of surprises.”
“I only want a little,” I say. I’m not much of a drinker, and definitely not a social one by Carlton High standards. But ever since Daniel and I each turned sixteen, our parents have let us sample whatever they’re having, because they think forbidding alcohol will only make us want it more. Their strategy worked, for the most part, since Daniel has no interest and I dislike everything except the smooth, spicy whiskey my father favors.
“Don’t worry. You’re getting the bare minimum, or Garrett’s going to notice.”
He’s not kidding. When he returns with a single shot glass, amber liquid barely covers the bottom. “I thought you’d have some, too,” I say when he hands it to me.