What are you guys doing here?
Trevor needed to drop stuff off for a friend, but they’re not home, and now the car won’t start. We think it’s the battery.
My nerves fade as I text back, I’ll get the jumper cables.
Park closer first, OK? I’ll pop the hood.
OK, I reply, before dropping my phone onto the seat beside me so I can inch the car forward. Trevor has his brights on, and I can’t see beyond the glare. I stop when I’m a few feet away and shift into park, leaving the ignition running as I open the door.
“Is this close enough?” I call as I step outside, but the other car’s doors haven’t opened. I wait a beat, tapping my foot on the gravel. Daniel doesn’t answer, probably too busy laughing it up with Trevor about something inane, and all the sibling resentment I pushed aside earlier starts to trickle back. That didn’t last long.
“Don’t rush. I’ll do it all myself,” I mutter, spinning on my heel to head for the trunk. Then I make a concerted effort to tamp down my irritation. I am a good person, doing a good and helpful thing, I chant to myself as I open the trunk and start moving all the blankets and recyclable shopping bags aside. I am a good person, doing a good and helpful thing.
If I weren’t such a good person, I’d probably be annoyed that nobody comes to help before I finally unearth the cables. It’s more than a little galling that my inaugural selfless act benefits a couple of lazy ingrates like my brother and Trevor. “Found them!” I call, stepping beside my car and waving them at the still-blazing headlights.
And then, finally, the other car’s door opens. The driver’s side, not the passenger’s side.
“Trevor?” I ask, squinting into the lights. It’s definitely not my brother; the shape isn’t tall or broad enough for him. “Where’s Daniel?” He doesn’t reply, and as he gets closer, I realize it’s not Trevor, either. The lines of a face finally emerge, and I blink in confusion when I realize who it is. “Hi,” I say. “What are you—”
His hand reaches out, lightning-quick, yanking the cables so hard that I go sprawling at his feet. “Ow!” I yell as sharp pieces of gravel bite into my palms and my knees. “What is the matter with you?” I try to stand up then, but a hand reaches out, shoving me back down, and I realize I shouldn’t be angry. I should be scared.
I open my mouth to scream, and a hand clamps over the bottom half of my face. Suddenly it’s hard to breathe, and panic floods my entire body as I’m hauled roughly to my feet.
“Sorry about this, Ivy,” says a familiar voice in my ear. “I really am. But I didn’t have much of a choice.”
MATEO
Gabe tries to fight back, but there’s no point. I’m a lot bigger than him, and a lot angrier.
I duck all of his badly aimed punches and throw him flat on his back, straddling him and pinning his hands until all he can do is struggle helplessly like a trapped bug. “How did you know?” he wheezes.
I didn’t, for sure, until I heard Gabe’s signature greeting coming from the number that texted the security code to Boney. But right before then, when I zeroed in on Gabe’s picture among Autumn’s collage, I remembered what Charlie had said in Ivy’s living room: You probably got on their bad side, if they switched your name out with your cousin’s. Don’t antagonize the Weasel, man! There’s only one person who hates me that much—and, I guess, cares about Autumn that much—while also being someone who’s at every party, and somehow had the money to buy himself a show-off muscle car despite not having a job. And that’s the guy pinned beneath me.
“You named me,” I snarl. “You asshole.”
“I had to!” Gabe chokes out. “I had to give…He knew there were three people, and I needed…I couldn’t give her name.”
“Yeah, well, someone went looking for her anyway. They called her boss, and if I hadn’t found her first—”
“That was me,” Gabe says, still flailing. “Trying to make sure she was okay. I wanted to—I wanted to get her out of town after what happened to Boney.”
The idea that Gabe and I were working toward the same goal startles me enough that I almost loosen my grip on him. But not quite. “Real noble of you, Gabe. You’re boyfriend of the year. But you hung Boney out to dry, huh?” I stare daggers at him, briefly fantasizing about letting loose the kind of punch that will break his face. “You sent him to that building. Did you kill him, too?”