Chapter 27
Ivy’s mind was swimming again. TikTok, Bae-sian Prof, Zeke, her father, detectives.
Fucking Abs. Why did I listen to you and go out to the bar? I hate you, bitch.
“Can I sit?” she asked.
“Of course.”
The thinner of the two cops was young, white, and about her age. The other Black detective was hefty. Like her, he too was sweating.
“You’re not in any sort of trouble,” the Black detective said.
Ivy tried to lower herself gracefully in her chair, but her legs failed to behave.
She didn’t like the sound of that.
In her experience, “You’re not in any sort of trouble” usually meant the opposite.
“I’m sorry, I forgot your names.”
The young cop pointed at himself then his partner.
“Vaughn and Darnell. We’re detectives with the Princeton Police Department. Dr. Reeves, if this is a bad time, we can come back.”
“No . . . it’s fine. And call me Ivy. Dr. Reeves was my dad. Is . . . Dr. Reeves is my dad,” she corrected herself.
“Sure, Ivy. We’re here because we have a bit of a math problem we need help with.”
This, Ivy had not been expecting.
“Okay . . .”
Vaughn looked uncomfortable. It was cute. The detective had medium length brown hair, parted to one side. A square jaw, a five o’clock shadow. Not 6’5”, hazel eyes, not blue, and definitely no trust fund.
Ivy silently cursed Abby again, this time for getting that stupid song stuck in her head. She didn’t even think that Abby was responsible—it was probably one of her students—but it just felt right to blame her friend for pretty much everything right now.
“It’s sensitive, and we’re not really sure if it is actually a math problem. It’s just . . . there are these numbers, right? Prime numbers, and—”
Darnell grimaced as his partner stumbled over his words.
“What we’re trying to say is that you can’t mention anything we show you. And, I’ll be honest, some of the images are pretty graphic.”
What is happening in my life?
“You have no obligation to help. And if you want us to come back . . . ?” Vaughn let his sentence trail off.
“It’s fine. I’m just not sure what you mean by a ‘math problem.’”
Vaughn smirked.
“We’re not either—that’s part of the problem.”
Another sidelong glance from his partner.
“We were at a crime scene and there were these prime numbers scattered all over the floor. We think it might be a math puzzle,” Darnell said. “But we’re way out of our league. Vaughn?”
The younger detective—twenty-five? Twenty-eight?—got out his phone. Swiped his finger, cocked his head. Pinched the screen. Squinted.
Ivy knew what he was doing. He was trying to hide some of the more ‘graphic’ images. She waited patiently. After a good thirty seconds, he seemed satisfied and held a photo out to her.
Ivy had no idea what she was looking at.
Smashed wood. A crumpled piece of paper with the number thirteen on it. A dirt floor.
“May I?”
“Sure.”
Vaughn passed her the phone, and she accidentally touched the screen. The image reset to normal size and Ivy grimaced.
“Oh, shit—did it?”
Vaughn reached for the phone. Ivy kept it.
“It’s okay.”
The scene was disturbing. More wood—broken boxes or tables, maybe?—other sheets of paper with numbers on them. Ivy saw all this, but couldn’t take her gaze off the man lying in the dirt. His eyes were open and cloudy.
Ivy had only ever seen one dead person before, and that situation had been entirely different. Intense, dangerous. No time to think or process. Just act.
“We found boxes with numbers engraved on the top and different ones inside. All prime numbers . . . you okay?”
Ivy shuddered, recalling the fire. The heat. The carnage.
The first two fingers and thumb on her right hand suddenly felt hot. Always did when she thought about the fire. All of her other wounds—scorched nose and throat from smoke inhalation, minor burns on her face and arms—had completely healed. But not her fingers.
“Is he . . . is he dead?”
Vaughn reached for the phone again, but for some reason, Ivy continued to hold it tightly, wouldn’t let him have it.
“Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you.”
He had to basically pry the phone from her hand.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Darnell said. “Maybe we’ll just describe the scenario to you?”
“Okay.”
Ivy had no idea why they hadn’t just done that in the first place. To impress on her how important this was? Was the presence of two detectives in her office not enough?
“Right, so we found these boxes. Some were smashed. Vaughn how many boxes in total?” The younger cop was staring at her. “Vaughn?”
“We think ten,” he said after a beat.
“So ten boxes. Each had a number on top, a prime number, and a different one inside. The victims—uh, the players—each had a number on their chest. That’s pretty much all we know,” Darnell said.
Victims. As in, plural? More than one?
This day could not possibly get any worse.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Actually, we know a bit more. There were only ten numbers,” Vaughn said, finding his tongue. “We found ten numbers, all prime numbers, repeated twice. One on the outside of the box, one inside. In some of the boxes, anyway—most were smashed.”
“Three,” Darnell corrected.
“Huh?”
“Three sets of numbers. One on their chests, one on the top of the boxes, one inside.”
“Right. Three. Could they be, like—”
“Wait,” Ivy interrupted. “There were ten victims?”
Darnell and Vaughn exchanged a look.
“Ten like . . . that?”