After we drop off Charlie, we drive in silence to Sorrento’s in Roslindale. It occurs to me, as I watch the miles flash by outside my window, that insisting on coming along might not be the best idea I’ve ever had. It’s past three already; by the time we track down Autumn’s schedule, and then Autumn herself, it could be close to five o’clock. Which is when I’d been planning to start getting ready for Mom’s award ceremony.
The award ceremony is the least of your problems, Ivy.
I shove the poisonous thought away every time it starts to invade my brain, because I desperately need to believe that I can still pull off a perfect night for my mother. I’ll make it work. An hour and a half of prep time was overkill anyway. I just won’t wash my hair; maybe I’ll put it up instead. I could do a French twist like Mom wears, except I don’t know how, so I’d have to watch a YouTube video, which I don’t have time for, so…
My mind keeps running different scenarios, adding and subtracting minutes as though everything that’s wrong about today could be solved with the right schedule, until Cal pulls into a parking lot behind a squat, redbrick building. It’s full of dingy, mostly dented white vans with giant knives painted on the sides. “Okay, I get the nickname now,” he says, navigating into the only empty spot between two of them. “But did it seriously not occur to anyone at this company that their branding is a lot more serial killer than helpful kitchen service?”
“It’s kind of a running joke at this point. I think customers would be disappointed to lose the murder vans,” Mateo says, unclipping his seat belt. “Hopefully this won’t take long.”
I don’t want him out of my sight. It’s irrational, I know, but Cal’s car feels like the only safe place on earth right now. Outside it, we need to pair up. “I’ll come with you,” I say, tightening the hood of Daniel’s sweatshirt around my face.
“Yeah, okay,” Mateo says.
My skin pricks as we wind through all the knife-covered vans, which I can’t help but feel would make the perfect cover for a sneak attack. But we’re the only ones in the parking lot, and reach an awning-covered door safely. Mateo pulls it open to the loud jangle of a bell, and steps aside to let me go in first.
I adjust my hood again as Mateo closes the door behind us and leads me through the vestibule into a narrow hallway. The walls are covered with a dozen framed “Best of Boston” awards, and I make note of the dates as we pass them. The most recent one is from eight years ago, so Sorrento’s might be a little past its prime.
“Hold on,” Mateo says, pausing to scan the hallway. “I can’t remember my way around. I’ve only been here once before.”
I follow his gaze until an older man’s head pops out of an open door near the end of the hall, startling me enough that I nearly gasp. “Hello there,” he calls.
“Hi, I called about—” Mateo starts, but the man holds up a hand before he can say anything else.
“I’m right in the middle of something, so give me five minutes, okay? Then I’ll help you with whatever you need.”
He disappears before I can explain that we don’t have five minutes. “Ugh,” I mutter, frustrated. “Should we follow him?”
Mateo stares down the hallway, hands on his hips. “I don’t want to piss him off. Let’s give him a few minutes. I want to show you something anyway.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. “I Googled that Dominick Payne guy while we were driving. You probably did, too, right?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, tugging at the hem of Daniel’s sweatshirt. I don’t want to admit that I spent most of the drive planning alternate timelines for award ceremony prep. “I mean, I tried, but my signal was kind of spotty.”
“Did you catch the Herald article about his gallery almost going bankrupt?”
“What? No!” Mateo holds out his screen, and I quickly scan the article. It’s from a year ago, about how Dominick Payne and a few other artists opened an ambitious, sprawling gallery on Newbury Street, only to run into financial problems almost immediately. They were saved from closing, Payne claimed in the article, by an “outside investor.”
“Well, that was a convenient, and vague, influx of cash,” I say when I finish reading.
“Right? The guy had money problems, and then all of a sudden, he didn’t,” Mateo says. “Sounds like Autumn on a bigger scale.” His expression darkens. “Plus, what kind of person keeps using a studio they’re not renting anymore?”
I manage not to remind him that I’d made that exact point when we first saw Boney entering the building this morning. “The kind of person who’s doing something they shouldn’t,” I say instead. “And wants any fallout to land on the new owners.”