Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Topher’s phone gets through half a ring before a voice picks up. “Mateo?” A guy. Not Topher. Takes Mateo a second to place the voice because he’s never heard it through a phone.
“Quincy?”
“Why’d you wait so long to call?” Hella accusatory.
Ophelia’s eyes meet Mateo’s across the now empty pizza box.
“He was supposed to call me,” Mateo defends. Quincy’s tone is understandable but alarming because it’s on edge to a degree not present even when dealing with Mateo’s broken neck situation. “We saw the news. What the hell is happening?”
What the hell was happening: Quincy had gotten Topher to the station, no problem.
Just as he pulled over, preparing to let Topher out, the car was swarmed by police.
Like they’d been waiting for him—a black Mercedes-Benz isn’t a rarity in the fancy areas of San Francisco, though, so they had to know what Topher looked like.
Topher had the presence of mind to chuck his phone at Quincy, and Quincy had the presence of mind to jam it into his jacket pocket covertly.
Which made them both geniuses but also marked the end of anything Quincy knew about Topher’s arrest directly.
He said he was a normal rideshare driver and had been prepared to show the sticker, but they hadn’t cared about him, just told him to leave.
After having an existential crisis in his car—Mateo’s interpretation, not Quincy’s words—Quincy had gone inside and tried to ask if the lawyer, a Mr. Moreau, had shown up.
Whoever was working the desk didn’t know he was the driver from the earlier thing, thought he was there about an accident, and said Mr. Moreau was probably at Saint Francis.
Quincy called the hospital, lied, and eventually got someone to tell him that Mr. Moreau hadn’t made it.
Meaning Topher’s lawyer was in a fatal car accident while he was on the way to meet Topher.
That was over four hours ago.
Quincy, unsure of their flight time, had gone back to his house with Topher’s phone, failed at guessing the password enough times to stop trying it in fear he’d brick it, and waited for them to call.
They sit on the open line for a full minute without comment, Ophelia’s hands pressed over her mouth and eyes locked on her screen where she’d paused it on Topher’s gaunt-faced mugshot.
The idea of this pale, scrawny guy getting a mugshot is insane.
The thought of him sitting in an actual jail cell is impossible.
It’s like he’s been told that someone shot a goose into space.
There’s just no reason. Why would you do that to a goose?
A flush heats Mateo’s skin, something between outrage and naked fear taking hold. This is so beyond bad. This is their-goose-is-in-outer-space levels bad. “We all know there’s no way he killed his mom, right?” He has to ask.
“Absolutely no way,” Ophelia says at the same time Quincy says, “None at all.”
“Okay. Good.” Mateo absently tongues one of the sharp teeth in his mouth, focusing on the constant thrum of his mother’s spell book. The pool of endless weariness he’s been floating on since breaking his neck dries up as he decides. “I’ve got a really bad idea.”