“There was a syringe,” I say with a shudder. “I saw it before I could—”
“Here.” Mateo sits across from me and puts a glass of water between us. “Drink this first. Give yourself a minute.”
I do, partly due to raging thirst, and partly because it’s nice, at this particular moment in time, to feel like someone’s taking care of me. But there are too many questions crowding my mind to stay quiet for long. And with Mateo and Cal both looking so grave, I have to ask the most important one. “What happened to the guy on the floor?” I burst out.
Mateo and Cal exchange glances. “We don’t actually know,” Cal says. Mateo picks up my empty glass, grabs two more on a nearby table, and brings them back to the bar. “We didn’t get a chance to check. After you passed out, things got complicated. Well, more complicated.”
“More complicated?” I echo. “How so?”
Cal drums his fingers on the table in front of him. “All of a sudden the police showed up with, like, sirens blaring. Next thing we knew, they were breaking down the door and storming up the stairs and we just—you know.” He slides a finger under his collar and tugs it away from his neck. “We figured they had the situation under control, so we…left.”
I blink at him. “You left,” I repeat.
“Yeah.” Cal licks his lips. He’s ghost pale, making the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks more pronounced than usual. “Through the back entrance.”
I can’t help myself; I’m on my feet again, pacing the scarred wooden floor. “You didn’t talk to the police first?” I ask.
“No,” Cal says.
“Let me get this straight.” My voice rises. “So what you’re telling me is—the two of you decided to flee a crime scene?”
Cal just licks his lips again, and I turn toward Mateo. He rests his forearms on the counter, looking like a world-weary bartender ready to listen to whatever tale of woe I’m about to spin. “How could you possibly think that was a good idea?” I ask accusingly.
Mateo’s jaw ticks. “Look, it was an intense situation. The cops were coming, and we had no idea why. We had to make a fast decision, and those of us who were still conscious made it. Sorry if it’s not what you would’ve done, but we couldn’t exactly consult you.”
A protest dies on my lips as I meet his tense gaze and realize I’m not being fair to him. Back in middle school, when the three of us used to wander through the Carlton Mall, Mateo was the only one who’d ever get followed around by security. A guard even searched his backpack once. Mateo just stood there, stone-faced and silent, while the guard pulled out battered notebooks, pens, a bunch of hopelessly tangled earbuds, and a hoodie before handing it all back without an apology. So I can understand—better late than never—why he didn’t want to stay in that studio. Still, I can’t stop pacing, stalking an agitated path between Cal’s table and the bar. “Okay, but we should at least tell someone that we saw Boney go in—”
And then I stop, because I’m at the edge of the bar, and there’s no missing the way Mateo’s shoulders stiffen at the mention of Boney’s name. All my nervous energy drains away in an instant, replaced by cold tendrils of dread. “What?” I ask.
“The guy we saw…” Mateo swallows hard. “Whoever it is, he’s dead.”
It feels like the floor just vanished from beneath my feet. I sag against the counter, gripping its edges, willing myself to stay upright. “It was Boney.”
“How do you know?” Mateo asks.
“The sneakers,” I say heavily. “They’re his.”
When I was standing frozen in the doorway, I wasn’t sure. But now, as I think back to Boney mounting the auditorium stage for our debate last week…I am. I remember seeing a flash of bright purple on his feet, and I remember how deeply it annoyed me. The pettiest part of me—the part that knew I was going to lose the election, and lose badly—wondered, Why does everything about him have to be so extra?
I was furious with him yesterday, and this morning. When I saw him heading into that building, I couldn’t wait to tell him off. A whole speech formed instantly in my head as I barreled across the street, and I wouldn’t even have needed notes. I bury my head in my arms, pressing my burning forehead against the cool bar for a few seconds of comforting darkness.
But as soon as I feel Mateo’s hand on my elbow, I lift my head. I can’t let myself cry, because if I start now, there’s no telling when I’ll stop. And some instinct deep inside me is pushing down the tears, urging me to keep a clear head.