It’s weird about the sneakers, though. I had no idea they cost that much.
Ugh. No. I give myself a mental slap. Do the right thing, Ivy. Don’t sit here coming up with conspiracy theories while your brother needs help. I’ve been frozen with indecision since I got into my car, but here, finally, is something I can do.
On my way, I text back.
MATEO
It’s not even dark yet, but the party’s already in full swing when I park Mrs. Ferrara’s pristine 1980s Buick in front of the neat ranch house. All those years of shoveling out my elderly neighbor’s driveway finally paid off with an emergency loaner car. And thank God for that, because this would’ve been a hell of a walk and there wasn’t time for that.
Music spills from open windows, and the front yard is full of familiar faces. Carlton High students past and present are standing in clusters, some looking subdued and serious, others laughing like it’s just another night at Stefan St. Clair’s. The house is small for Carlton, and from what I’ve heard, Stefan has multiple roommates, but still. It’s a pretty great setup for a college freshman.
As I head for the front door, two girls with black ribbons in their hair wrap their arms around one another while a third girl snaps their picture with her phone.
“Make sure you hashtag it RIP Boney,” one of the girls says.
I open the door and step inside, the loud beat of rap music washing over me as I scan the crowd for familiar faces. Charlie St. Clair lifts a bottle in greeting, and I wait while he makes his way toward me. He’s still wearing the puka shell necklace I almost strangled him with, but he’s changed his shirt for something less blood-spattered.
“You made it,” he says, gazing over my shoulder. “Where’s Ivy and Cal?”
“Not here,” I say. “How’s your house?”
“Empty. My parents are totally freaked. They went to a hotel and they’re gonna, like, have a whole new security system installed. They’re talking bars on the windows, even.” Charlie rubs his eyes, which look a few shades clearer than they did in Ivy’s living room.
“You sober yet?” I ask.
“Yeah. Pretty much.” Charlie scratches his chin. “I don’t usually drink that much. But I was so freaked about Boney, and then I saw what happened to my house, and I—I needed something to take the edge off, you know?” He raises his bottle again, twisting it to reveal the Poland Spring label. “Nothing but water tonight.”
“Good idea.” I contemplate telling him about Autumn heading for the police station, but before I can, Charlie adds, “I can’t stop thinking about it, though. Like, this morning Boney must’ve figured it was gonna be a normal day, and now he’s gone.” He takes a long sip of water. “Could’ve been me who got the call about that deal. Could’ve been you, right? If somebody mixed you up with Autumn.”
I wouldn’t have gone, I almost say. But maybe I would have; if I’d gotten a random message about some big deal in Boston, I might’ve shown up to see how bad of a mess my cousin had gotten herself into. Besides, I know that’s not Charlie’s point. His point is that Boney got the rawest of all possible deals today, and on that we fully agree.
“Boney didn’t deserve this,” I say.
Charlie lowers his voice so that I can barely hear him over the music. “I know Cal wanted to tell someone about the drugs and everything. Maybe that was the right call. I don’t know.” He scrapes a hand over his jaw. “I told Stefan what’s been going on, and he says no way. He says I just need to lie low and keep my head down for a while. And everything will work itself out.”
That sounds exactly like something Stefan St. Clair would say. “Is Stefan around?”
“Outside,” Charlie says, jerking his head over his shoulder. “There’s a deck off the kitchen.” I go to leave, but he steps in front of me. “Hey, listen. Is there something going on with you and Ivy?”
God. We don’t have time for that conversation, and even if we did, I wouldn’t know what to tell him. “Later, Charlie, okay?” I say, pushing past him.
I make my way into the kitchen, where bottles crowd every square inch of the counter and a line for the keg snakes into the dining room. “I didn’t really know him all that well,” the guy manning the keg is saying to the girl beside him. “But we have to celebrate life, right?”
“Right,” the girl says somberly, tipping her cup against his. The sleeve of her shirt lifts just enough to display the black ribbon on her wrist. “Boney taught us that.”