“What?” I blink, startled, then flush when I realize what completely different tracks our minds were running along.
Ivy tilts her head toward Mateo, oblivious to my confusion. “Why are you on here? What does Ms. Jamison have against you?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I told you, I’ve never even taken her class.”
“There must be something,” she insists. “Some connection between you and Charlie and Boney. Are you and Charlie friends? Or acquaintances, or—anything?”
“No,” Mateo says. My eyes flick between them like I’m watching a ping-pong match, and I get the same feeling that the D card gives me: I’m missing something. “Maybe the list doesn’t mean anything,” Mateo continues. “Maybe it’s some kind of school thing, and it’s just a coincidence that Boney’s name is on there.”
Ivy frowns. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Because it’s not only the list. It’s also the fact that she’s a blond woman, and she uses the studio on Tuesdays—”
“But she wasn’t there,” I protest, even though I’m no longer sure who I’m trying to convince. Ivy and Mateo, or myself? “She had a ceramics class.”
“A ceramics class,” Ivy repeats, her voice flat.
“Yeah. That’s what she told me.”
“Oh, is that what she told you?” Ivy’s lip curls. “Well, I guess that’s that, then. We’ll just take her word for it, since she’s such an honest person.”
“She showed me.” I pull out my phone and scroll to the picture of the green bowl, holding it up to Ivy. “She texted this from her class, when we first got to Garrett’s.”
“Pssh.” Ivy barely glances at it. “She could’ve had that saved on her phone. Or grabbed it off an image search.”
“Why would she lie about something that’s so easy to check?” I counter.
Ivy arches her eyebrows. “And did you check?”
“I don’t mean me,” I say defensively. “Since when am I in charge of alibis?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but a ringing phone cuts her off. The sound is coming from somewhere in our booth, but it’s not mine. Ivy doesn’t reach for her bag, so it’s clearly not hers, either. We both look toward Mateo, expectant.
He pales as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black case that’s…ohhh. My pulse quickens as I recognize the phone I took from Lara’s studio, thinking it was Ivy’s.
The one that probably belongs to Boney.
“Answer it!” Ivy says. Mateo just keeps holding the phone gingerly, like he’s afraid it’s going to explode. I pluck it out of his hand as Ivy leans against me for a look at the caller’s name. She gasps, and I almost drop the phone.
Charlie.
I swipe to answer and say, “Hello?” I don’t mean to do it, exactly, but somehow the word comes out in Boney’s signature drawl.
“Boney!” A voice, pitched high and panicky, floods my ear. “Holy shit, man, I never thought I’d be this glad to talk to you. People have been saying you’re dead. What the hell happened over there? Did the guy ever show?”
“Um.” I have no idea what to say next. Ivy mouths something I can’t understand, and I wave her away so I can think. “Um, is this Charlie St. Clair?” I ask.
For a few seconds, all I can hear from the other end is ragged breathing. “Why are you asking me that?” Charlie asks in a more normal tone, and now I recognize him. Even when he’s freaking out, he sounds like the turtle in Finding Nemo.
“Yeah, so, here’s the thing. This isn’t Boney—” I start.
“Shit!” Charlie interrupts with a strangled half scream, and abruptly hangs up.
“Charlie, wait!” I say into the dead phone. Then I lower it, hoping I can somehow get him back, but now that he’s disconnected, Boney’s screen is locked again. “Damn it,” I say, frustration mounting as I fruitlessly swipe at the screen. “He’s gone.”
“Let me see,” Ivy says. I hand her Boney’s phone, and she says, “Mateo, you tried 1-2-3-4 as a passcode, right?” He nods. “Anything else?”
“No,” Mateo says.
“Maybe his name.” Ivy mutters B-O-N-E-Y as she presses the keypad, then frowns and shakes her head. “No luck. Cal, what did Charlie say?”
I replay our short conversation word for word, as best I can remember. I’m positive that I have at least one part right: Charlie asking, Did the guy ever show? I try to say it neutrally, like it doesn’t mean anything, even while my brain flashes with additional context.