10
On the walk, I text Henry that I’m on my way. I stick to the shade, trying to work out exactly how to tell him about Adam without making it seem like I suspect him. It isn’t until I ring the doorbell and Bram answers that I realize Henry never replied to my text.
“Oh,” I say, “hi.”
He rests a shoulder on the doorjamb, a coy grin on his lips. “Weren’t you here earlier?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I didn’t see you, though. Were you spying on me or something?”
“Your visit put my little brother in bad spirits.” Bram loves to call his brothers younger, simply because he was born first. And we’re talking the oldest by seconds; they were all delivered via C-section, one right after another.
“He slammed a door so hard my hair got a little messed up from the draft.”
I cover my mouth with a hand in mock astonishment. “Whatever did you do?”
“Cried a little. Took a nap to recapture the bedhead look.”
I roll my eyes. “Adam is always in bad spirits.”
“Very true,” Bram says, motioning me inside. “But I meant Henry.”
I blink. “Henry’s in a bad mood because of me?” That explains the tension on our phone call. I think back to our conversation here at the house about who Kennedy might’ve been dating. All I remember is that he seemed eager to speak to his lawyer, and he was somewhat dismissive of me. “Where is he?”
“Out.” Bram furls a hand in the direction of the door.
Out? “I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the house.”
He lifts his dark brows mischievously. “We aren’t.”
It doesn’t sound like Henry, going against his parents and the lawyers. “Well, where did he go?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Bram says matter-of-factly. But he softens, his cocky demeanor falling. “I wouldn’t worry about him. He hates being holed up in here. He has ever since the whole thing with”—he shrugs—“you know.”
“I would’ve gone with him,” I say, hurt that Henry didn’t invite me. He must’ve been really upset with me. Last year, when the boys were shut in after Mariana’s death, Henry would often get restless. He’d always invite me over to keep him company. To make his world seem a little bit bigger.
“I’m sure he just needed to clear his head,” Bram says gently.
“I hope he stays out of sight. People are saying some messed-up things.” My heart aches, thinking of the way Sage’s father looked at Henry the other day.
“Well, he’s used to it. He’s the one who kept trying to go back to school last year, despite everything. And it sounds like if the detectives don’t charge us with anything by Monday, we’re going back this week.”
“What?” I ask, failing to hide my shock. “I thought your lawyer—that Mr. Swanson guy—told you to stay home.”
“Mr. Swanson didn’t want us talking to anyone, letting something stupid slip.” Bram gestures me along through the foyer, and I follow. “Now he’s saying that hiding makes us look guilty. If we’re not guilty and we’re not being charged with anything, we need to carry on with our lives as usual.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, and it’s perfect timing, really. With the retreat coming up.”
I balk. “There’s no way you three are attending the retreat.”
“Phil,” Bram says, stepping close enough that I can smell the cedar and smoke of his cologne, the mint of his toothpaste.
It brings me back to a day in his room over a year ago, when I felt almost intoxicated by that scent.
Like he had some sort of magical power over me.
“You’re not listening. Life as usual. That means the student council retreat. ”
I cross my arms. “You guys are barely on student council.”
“Take it up with Mr. Fuller,” he says, smirking. “And don’t act like you’re not thrilled we’re going with you.”
My pulse hitches. I hate it when he reads me perfectly. “You’re going to give Sage a heart attack.” I tilt my head. “Which might be kind of funny, honestly. Not, like, a literal heart attack. But putting a healthy dose of fear in her.”
“That’s our girl.” Bram knocks a fist lightly against my shoulder.
My cheeks heat. “I, uh, should probably get going. You’ll tell Henry I came by?”
“Don’t be so daft,” Bram says, utilizing a vocab word from last week’s honors list, even though he isn’t even in honors. His hand is on my shoulder now. “Stay until Henry gets back. I’ve got another movie lined up.”
His touch sends a thrill up to the base of my skull and down to my toes simultaneously.
This is a bad idea. Very bad. For whatever reason, Bram has always had this effect on me.
I know that Henry is the boy for me—I’ve known for a while now.
And still, when Bram so much as looks at me a certain way, I feel this beguiling sense of danger.
I think about telling him I’ve got homework. I think about telling him I don’t feel up for a movie. Instead, unwilling to douse that little spark, I let him nudge me ahead to the living room, his hand on my back now, radiating heat.
He sits me down on the couch. “Want coffee?”
“Are you having some?”
“Why not? You can tell me whatever it is that’s got you all flustered. The coffee will help loosen your lips.”
I can’t help but notice his gaze on my mouth. “I think you’ve got coffee confused with liquor,” I say, to which he quirks his own lips, amused. “And I am not all flustered,” I add. But he’s already ambling off, leaving me to sit here and regret my choices.
I am dying to hash out everything I learned about Dr. Russo with someone. Only Bram isn’t the person I’d usually confide in about something serious, like my concerns about Adam.
With Henry, I feel like I can see straight through his lenses, his eyes, and his skull into his mind. It’s like talking to myself.
But with Bram, things are never transparent. At least, not on my end. He always seems to know what I’m thinking, while his mind remains a locked box. He’s always playing games, saying one thing but meaning another. For all I know, he could run straight to Adam and tell him everything.
I hear the machine brewing over in the kitchen and check my phone again. My text to Henry is still unread, and I’m antsy not knowing what I said to upset him earlier.
Bram’s voice calls to me from the kitchen. “Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
A moment later, he ambles back in, a mug in each hand. “Thanks,” I say as he sits down beside me, slightly too close.
Again I get a flash of that day in his room.
I’d come over here to help Adam with his summer school assignment. For whatever reason—likely pride—he never allowed Henry to help with schoolwork, so I was his tutor. Only that day, Adam forgot about our session, and Bram was the only brother at home.
He invited me in, much like today, and I asked if I could see the painting he was working on.
I expected an automatic no; he never showed anyone his paintings.
It was part of the whole mystery that is Bram.
In fact, hardly anyone even knows he paints.
But if you look closely, there’s often a trace of black or red beneath his fingernails.
Not that I look closely at Bram.
To my surprise, he hesitated, deliberating with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans and an endearing twist of the lips. “All right,” he finally said. “But if you make fun of me, I’ll tell everyone about that time you fed Igor cheese and he got sick all over Mom’s rug.”
“Hey! I never had a dog before.”
“And we never did again, thanks to you.” He grinned and bumped my shoulder with his.
Bram’s paintings were stowed in his massive walk-in closet, the canvases covered in white sheets.
“Why don’t you hang these up around the house?” I asked. “It’s not like your family is short on wall space.”
“Haven’t felt like it.” He shrugged, his rogue expression turning contemplative. “These paintings are about what’s on the inside. I guess displaying them just seems…wrong.”
“But isn’t that what painting is? Showing others what you’re thinking and feeling?”
“Maybe I don’t want anyone to know what’s in here,” he said, tapping his temple.
I rolled my eyes. “Has Mariana seen it?”
Bram shook his head. “You’re the first.”
I was surprised. Mariana and Bram seemed so close. Their relationship was one of the reasons I failed to see the risk in stepping into the walk-in closet alone with Bram.
That may have been the first mistake I made that day.
He reached for the easel that faced the back of the closet. “I’ll warn you, it’s a work in progress. The beginning stages, really.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I bounced on the balls of my feet, excitement building at seeing something no one else had laid eyes on.
“Please temper your expectations,” Bram said, his brows drawing together.
“Just show me.”
“Fine.” He lifted the sheet between two fingers, like a magician revealing a birdcage. “Voila.” He let the sheet fall to the floor. “I call it…well, nothing yet.”
I looked upon the painting, stunned. I’d had no idea what to expect, but maybe I should have formed some visualization beforehand. Obviously, I wouldn’t have pictured a landscape with colorful flowers or green hills. Nothing vibrant or cheerful, not from Bram.
But I never could’ve envisioned what perched on the easel before me.
The blackness, texturized by the brush and palette knife, grays and dark blues blended to form an image, something like a face.
The one bright streak of red. The abstractness, sharp lines meeting delicate curved ones, giving the macabre illusion of teeth sinking into soft flesh.
The utter destruction represented on the canvas. The absence of life.
It was like I was viewing Death itself. It was visceral, grotesque, and shocking.
And yet, much like its creator, in a way, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It drew me in, called me forward.
I must’ve been standing there in silent awe for far too long, because Bram picked up the sheet off the floor and started to cover the painting.
I rushed to the easel. “What are you doing?”
“You obviously hate it.” He kept his back to me, still attempting to cover the painting.
“No, I-I…” I wanted to say I loved it, but that would’ve rung false.
Love wouldn’t have been the right word. How can you love something so ghastly?
How can you love something that makes you feel like your very bones and innards are quaking in revulsion?
And yet, the way I felt was far stronger than admiration or like.
Maybe because it made me feel so strongly to begin with.
It was as if the incarnation of death had made me feel more alive than I ever had.
Even now, recalling the details of that encounter, I can’t come up with a word that describes how I felt about the painting.
“Hey,” I said, reaching up for his shoulder and attempting to turn him around. “Hey, look at me.”
He consented, his tall sturdy frame almost malleable beneath my fingers. Yet he refused to meet my eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but you’re misunderstanding. I think it’s amazing.”
“You’re just saying that because I got upset.”
“No. No, I’m not.” I tilted my head in front of his, trying to catch his gaze. My hands were up on both of his shoulders, and as he let his guard down, I let my hands slide down to his wrists.
And though I’ve hashed this scene out in my head often over the last year and a half, I think that was likely where I really went wrong.
***
Now, not wanting to repeat past mistakes, I scoot ever so slightly away from Bram under the guise of needing to cross my legs and get comfortable. “You’re not worried about Henry?” I ask, because Henry seems like a safe conversation topic.
“I am not.” Bram takes a sip of coffee. “Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Is this Irish coffee?” I ask, taking a tentative sip.
“Come on, Phil. Talk to me. I know Henry had you acting as private investigator, and I’d like to be in the loop.”
“I don’t have anything just yet,” I answer truthfully. “But I’m looking into how Mariana’s death might be related to Kennedy’s.”
Bram’s head pulls back. “As in the same person killed both girls?”
“Not exactly.”
He leans forward, placing a hand so near my leg on the couch, it might as well be touching me. He looks me dead in the eyes. Whatever gift I thought I had for reading Henry’s mind—Bram has it with me. He is seeing my thoughts in real time—about Adam, about Henry, about him.
All of my past mistakes come tumbling forward, like he’s siphoning them out of me.