（Daniel raises both middle fingers.）
ISHAAN: Powerful statement.
MATEO
I never fully appreciated Cal’s driving skills until now. It’s almost three-thirty in the afternoon, when greater Boston’s early rush hour traffic starts filling up the roads, but we haven’t seen any of it. He keeps overriding the GPS by taking back roads to get to Hyde Park, where Autumn is supposed to be in about fifteen minutes. When the system recalculates once again and posts a new estimated arrival time, it looks like we might actually make it.
“How do you know all these roads?” Ivy asks. She’s been giving Cal the lowdown on everything we talked about in Sorrento’s, and he’s been absorbing all of it without arguing or defending Ms. Jamison. But he hasn’t said much, either.
“My girlfriend before Noemi was a competitive fencer,” he says. “I used to drive her to meets all over the place.”
“Fencing? That’s interesting,” Ivy says, and bam—Cal jumps at the chance to change the subject, launching into a monologue about his ex that I immediately tune out. I don’t blame him for wanting to focus on something else for a few minutes, but I can’t do the same. I keep flashing back to what Mr. Sorrento said in the hallway: Someone else called right after you. He sounded rather urgent.
Ever since Autumn started selling the Oxy, I’ve been mad at her. I was afraid she’d get into trouble, maybe even get Ma or me into trouble. But I never thought, until today, that she could get hurt.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, hoping for a message from Autumn, but it’s from Ma. I get a quick jolt of apprehension—she knows—but it’s just a picture of her and her friend Christy flanking my aunt Rose. They’re sitting on Aunt Rose’s rock-hard, floral upholstered couch, which has a bunch of silver and gold balloons tied around one arm. All three of them are beaming, cheerful and oblivious.
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.