Lara’s brow creases with mild impatience. “I told you. I took a ceramics class.”
“But you said…last night, when we talked about getting breakfast today, you said you’d be going to the studio after.”
“Right,” she says, sipping her drink. “Then a spot opened up last minute, so I took it.”
I wait a beat to see if she has more to add. I’m starting to feel uncomfortably warm, and roll my shirtsleeves up higher. “Well, as it turns out, I was at the studio this morning, and—”
“Hold on,” she interrupts, frowning. “You were at the studio? Cal, you can’t do that. I’m sorry I disappointed you this morning, but you can’t just come looking for me. Especially with your friends in tow. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” I protest. Although…maybe, in some corner of my brain, I was. Is that why I suggested getting coffee near the studio, or stopping by the art supply store? Because I was hoping to catch a glimpse of her? I push the thought away and add, “That’s not my point. My point is that Boney Mahoney was there, too.”
Lara blinks, confused. “Who?”
“Boney Mahoney. Brian, I mean. Brian Mahoney, from school.”
It feels weird to admit now, even to myself, but when I first saw Boney walking through that door this morning—I was jealous. All I could think was that he was there because Lara had asked him to be. Boney’s not her type, I thought, but then it hit me that nobody would ever consider me her type, either.
Before I could get too moody about it, though, everything went straight to hell.
“Oh, sure, okay,” Lara says, but she still looks puzzled. “What about Brian?”
I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell her, but—“He died this morning.”
“Oh my God. Really?” Lara’s hands fly to her cheeks, her eyes widening. “Oh, how awful. What happened?”
I swallow hard. I don’t know how to deliver the rest of the news, except to blurt it out. “I’m not sure yet, but from what they’re saying on the news, he was killed. Injected with some kind of drug, maybe. In your studio.”
“Killed?” Lara whispers, every drop of color draining from her face. “In my…in the building?”
“Not just the building. Your actual studio.” My eyes search her face, looking for a flicker of—what? I’m not even sure—before I add, “And somebody called in a tip about a blond woman injecting him.”
Lara passes a trembling hand over her mouth. “Please tell me you’re making some kind of sick joke.”
If I were capable of being mad at her, that would’ve done it. “No,” I say tersely. “I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”
“I didn’t mean…I’m just…I can’t.” Lara presses a palm to her cheek, then reaches beneath the table for her bag. She hauls it into her lap and starts scrambling through it, tossing it onto the bench beside us after she extracts her phone. She unlocks it, scrolls for a few minutes, and gets even paler. “Oh my God, this is…I can’t believe this. You’re right, Brian is…oh my God, Cal. You were there? What happened?”
I try to explain the situation as succinctly as I can, but I end up having to repeat myself a few times before she grasps it fully. She’s completely still the entire time except for her eyes, which keep flicking between me and her screen. Then she drops the phone onto the table, and buries her face in her hands.
I watch her for a few minutes, searching for a sign that her reaction isn’t genuine. None of this looks good for Lara. I know that, but I also can’t think of a single reason why she’d hurt Boney. “So…，” I finally say tentatively. “You were in a ceramics class the whole time? Because that tip about the blond woman—”
Lara’s hands drop from her face, her expression hardening. “Had nothing to do with me. I was at the adult education center on Mass Ave until”—she glances at her watch—“about ten minutes ago.”
Before I can respond, there’s a loud crashing noise to our left. We both jump, and I turn to see a waiter rushing toward a busing station near the front of the room, shooing customers away. Lara twists in her chair, looking almost relieved at the distraction. “People always pile those too high,” she says.
“Yeah,” I agree, even though I don’t give a crap about a few broken dishes. “Lara, what about your friend? The one who lets you use the studio? Would he…do you think he could’ve had anything to do with this?”