You'll Be the Death of Me

Don’t forget to call Aunt Rose and wish her a happy birthday!

I won’t, I text back, suppressing a sigh. Ma will know if I don’t follow through, so at some point in this horrible, endless day, I’m going to have to yell birthday greetings so my ninety-year-old great-aunt will be able to hear me over the sounds of her party.

Which…huh. Gives me an idea, actually.

“Almost there,” Cal calls.

I look out the window and frown, ready to protest, because we’re still surrounded by trees, so there’s no way we’re close to a sports bar in the middle of downtown Hyde Park. Then he makes a sharp turn, and we’re suddenly merging onto a two-lane highway. I spot the blinking red sign for Uncle Al’s Sports Pub less than a quarter mile away.

“You’re a miracle worker, Cal,” I say, glancing at the clock on my phone before stuffing it into my pocket. It’s 3:23, or about two minutes before Autumn is due to show up. Mr. Sorrento told us routes can vary depending on traffic, but she was on time for her last stop.

“The good thing is, if she’s in there sharpening knives, we’ll know right away,” Cal says, turning into the parking lot for Uncle Al’s. “You can’t miss the murder van.”

He’s right, and she’s not here. Cal pulls into an empty space and kills the engine. “Should we wait?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, because we’re still a minute early, but Ivy shakes her head.

“We should go inside and ask if she’s already been here. That way, if she’s ahead of schedule, we won’t lose time heading for the next place.”

“Good idea,” I say. Ivy is still in full disguise mode, her oversized hoodie covering half her face. “You want to come with?”

“Sure,” she says, unbuckling.

We’re both all business, not showing any trace that we hooked up an hour ago. If there’s one good thing to come out of this mess, it’s knowing I might have another shot with Ivy, but I can’t shove my worries down far enough to think about that yet.

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.

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