“I don’t know,” she says in the same voice, and now I recognize the tone.
She’s afraid.
I pick up my pace, taking the steps two at a time. “What floor are you on?” I call.
“I don’t know,” she says again. My heart is pounding, both from exertion and worry, and I’m steeling myself for the worst when I reach the fourth floor and catch sight of her hovering at the edge of a doorway. Alone, and from what I can see, perfectly fine.
I lean against the wall to catch my breath. We’re in a long hallway with multiple doors on either side, all of them closed except the one Ivy’s next to. “Ivy, what the hell,” I pant as Cal lags behind me on the stairs, a couple of floors down. “You scared the crap out of me. Where’s Boney?”
“I think…” She’s still staring into the room in front of her, clutching one side of the doorframe like she needs the support. “I think he might be there.”
“Where?” I come up beside her and peer into the room. At first, all I notice are the large windows, built-in bookshelves, and a long table strewn with paper, pencils, and brushes. A few easels are scattered here and there, some covered with half-finished drawings. Definitely a studio, and definitely recently used, even though the building is supposed to be empty.
And then I follow Ivy’s gaze to a pair of bright purple sneakers jutting out from behind a large rolling cabinet. Somebody’s lying there, perfectly still and silent.
Not a flicker of movement, anywhere.
I clear my throat and call, “Boney?” There’s no response; no sound at all except for the faint wail of sirens in the distance. Was Boney wearing purple sneakers? I can’t remember; all that comes to mind when I try to picture him outside is the tie-dye T-shirt and his backpack. Neither of those are visible from where we’re standing. “Are those his—” I start to ask Ivy.
Then something jostles my arm. I turn with a fist raised on instinct, ready to strike, but it’s just Cal on his tiptoes, trying to see around me. He stumbles backward, hands up in a gesture of peace, as he asks, “What’s going on?”
“Somebody’s in there. Somebody who’s…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I take a couple of steps into the room so Cal can see what we’re seeing, then turn back and look at Ivy. “You haven’t gotten any closer than this?”
“No.” She finally unfreezes, coming up beside me and twisting her hands together. “I was afraid that…I didn’t know if somebody else was here, or—”
“Did you see anyone else?” I ask. The sound of sirens is getting closer.
Ivy shakes her head. Color starts to return to her cheeks, and her shoulders straighten as she walks toward the sneakers. “I don’t know why I was so spooked, I just—”
Then she gasps, stops in her tracks, and collapses onto the ground.
For a second, I’m too shocked to react. Then I yell, “Ivy!” and sprint toward her, dropping to my knees and pulling her still form toward me. I put one hand against her neck and lift her face toward mine, heart hammering, to check her pulse and her breathing. Both are steady, but her eyes are closed and she’s a dead weight in my arms. “Ivy,” I say again, like there’s any chance of her answering me right now. “What the hell happened?” I look toward the cabinet, wondering if she fainted from shock at the sight of a dead body, but I still can’t see anything except the purple sneakers.
Cal crouches beside me and points. “I think that happened.”
I follow his gaze and almost laugh, even though there’s nothing funny about any of this. There’s a syringe lying a few feet away from us on the floor, sharp and deadly-looking. My heart rate starts to return to normal as I say, “Guess somebody still faints at the sight of needles, huh?” I look past the syringe, and catch sight of a phone beneath a nearby easel. “Grab Ivy’s phone, would you?”
Cal does and stuffs it into his pocket, his face pale. “Mateo, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” I ask, seconds before realizing the sound of sirens has gotten louder than ever. All of a sudden, it’s like they’re on top of us.
“Something’s off. Something’s wrong.” Cal’s practically vibrating, bouncing on the balls of his feet with adrenaline-fueled anxiety.
I can’t believe I even have to say this, while holding a motionless Ivy and backing away from a maybe-dead guy, but—“A lot of things are pretty fucking wrong right now, Cal.”