Chapter 29. Brynn
brYNN
The weekday commuter crowd has thinned by the time I step on the Metro-North train at Grand Central Terminal late the next morning.
Walking down the narrow aisle of bright blue and green seats, I catch a whiff of something fishy mixed with disinfectant.
I choose an empty row and lower my butt into a window seat.
No response from the text I sent Meredith about not coming in today. I can almost hear the whispers around the agency regarding my parents’ and Cody’s deaths, with Donovan at the helm, telling people I’m in jail. A month on the job and now I’m a convict.
Last night, I flipped around on my mattress, punching my pillow and staring at the cracks in the coffin’s ceiling, running through the kinds of questions the detectives could ask—and searching for the answers I still don’t have.
The train chugs forward through the tunnel. A baby cries. Passengers in the facing section past the door nod off as if they’ve just finished a long shift at work.
We climb out of the darkness and into the gray light. Raindrops drag across my window. My foggy head finds a less than comfortable spot where the curved headrest meets the glass and my gaze drifts out to the patchy sky, the buildings and homes rolling by.
For once, my mind stills.
Thirty minutes later, I exit at White Plains and catch the bus at Tarrytown.
By the time I get off at East Main the rain has eased, so I walk the rest of the way.
Hard to imagine Cody growing up in this upper-crust town—something I didn’t dwell on the last time we visited, holding hands in the back seat of Adrian’s car, heading to Pete’s on Central Avenue, both of us giddy.
This Westchester gig was supposed to be the beginning of all our dreams.
If someone had told me Cody would never play that night, I wouldn’t have believed it.
Stay, Cody. Don’t go.
I’ve searched the Elmsford Village Police Department for updates from that night so many times, each time holding my breath. Yet every attempt, I’ve found nothing new. So why am I being summoned now?
I recheck the address. This can’t be it.
The building before me sits back from the quiet suburban street with beautiful homes on either side, giving off a country club vibe with its fresh-cut lawn and circular driveway.
The police station’s brick facade, dormer windows, and white columns that flank the entrance strike me as being a far cry from the city’s gritty-looking precincts.
I trudge up the narrow cement steps, my legs like logs moving in water. I hesitate on the top step, staring at the glass doors. My throat constricts. I wish I wasn’t doing this alone.
I utter my name through the plexiglass pinholes to the large, barrel-chested officer at the front desk, unable to tear my eyes away from the round swirl of greasy black hair in the center of his bald head.
Another officer ushers me down the hall to a brown-paneled room with a rectangular table and chairs in the center, just like in the movies. She closes the door.
My pulse thuds in my ears. I pace, sidestepping the human-size stain on the cement floor. Do I need a lawyer? How would I pay for that?
Footsteps sound. My body tenses. The door handle turns. I drop into the single chair. A bead of sweat escapes down the back of my T-shirt.
A towering Black woman with unblinking eyes and sharp cheekbones enters, followed by a much younger-looking Asian guy.
The female officer’s curls cover her brows and scrape her shoulders. She offers me a polite smile. “We appreciate you taking a trip out here, Miss Gallardo. We spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Simone.” She lifts her chin toward her companion. “My partner, Detective Clive Bodie.”
Simone looks older in person than she sounded on the phone, but is this Clive guy even old enough to be a detective? He looks like he’s my age.
Simone presses her palms to the top of her thighs. “Water, soda?”
“Coffee, please.”
“How do you take it?”
“Um, black is fine.” I won’t ask for almond or oat milk; I don’t want to be seen as difficult.
One glance from her and Clive exits the room. When he returns he has my coffee in one hand and a cardboard box with Gallardo written on the end in black Sharpie in the other. He places it next to Detective Simone.
My stomach plummets. Am I about to see my parents’ personal effects?
I can’t.
I won’t.
I bite my thumbnail.
He closes the door and sets down the cup of coffee in front of me. An oily film swirls like gasoline on top.
Clive takes a seat next to Simone and across from me, looking like a member of a K-pop band with his tinted hair flow. His dark, close-set eyes give me a start. He studies me, chewing on the end of a pen and clicking the top of it.
“Um, I told the officers at Pete’s everything I knew.” I take a tentative sip of my coffee. It tastes as bad as I expected.
Simone clears her throat. “The report states your father lost control of the car driving northbound on the Saw Mill. The tire tracks reveal his vehicle skidded and then spun along the road. It flipped and slid several hundred feet, landing in a ravine before it—”
“I already know this.”
“We received new evidence.” She averts her eyes.
I suck in my breath.
“A jogger in Pocantico Park”—she cocks her head as she reads the report—“found a cell phone near one of the trails containing traces of blood.”
She folds her arms over the table; the corners of her mouth sag. “It belonged to Cody Waters.”
Clive opens the box between them, fishes out a plastic bag with the phone in it, and slides it onto the table.
Cody’s blood. Oh my God.
That video we recorded together that night was the first of many we planned to do, a mini documentary to be streamed by thousands someday. We kissed like crazy . . . we were so damn happy before he . . .
I need to see his face.
I reach for the bag.
Simone snatches it away.
A small cry escapes my lips. I stuff it back down. “Where did you find it?”
“Pocantico Park, as I said.” Her lips press into a line.
I swallow. “Which is where?”
“North, off Saw Mill River Road.”
“In what town?”
“Elmsford.”
I straighten my back. “That makes no sense. They found him outside the music store in Dobbs Ferry.”
“Their security tapes don’t show him ever entering the store. No purchases were made by anyone fitting his description.”
“He never made it inside? I don’t understand.”
She looks at Clive.
He moves his chair in closer, facing me.
“The location-sharing app on his phone shows him leaving Pete’s Saloon in Elmsford at 8:24 p.m. He gets on the Saw Mill driving south, then loops around to go north.
The car circles around twice.” He lifts a piece of paper from the box.
“I’ve printed out an enlarged view of the app’s map.
See here. Your parents’ vehicle went off the road here, within that circle.
Notice the slight deviation where you can see the second loop.
” He points out the car’s path with his pen.
“Looks as if the car Cody rode in passes the accident, then comes back around, arriving in Dobbs Ferry a couple of hours later.”
I squint, feel my stomach knotting up. “What was he doing for two hours?”
Clive shrugs sitting back in his chair.
“Did he know your parents’ car?” Simone asks.
My ears grow hot. “Maybe, I don’t know.” Hard to miss the dilapidated Monte Carlo with its patchy exterior and potato-smelling maroon leather seats parked outside our apartment. My parents didn’t drive it much.
Clive clicks his pen. “One theory I’ve been noodling: Your boyfriend sees the accident, may or may not have recognized the car until he comes back around. Either way, he pulls over to help.”
I bite the inside of my lip, wrapping my arms around my belly. “Okay . . .”
Simone takes the printout from him. “Or . . . what if . . . first pass, he causes your parents’ accident. Second pass, he attempts to rescue them and play the hero.”
My throat catches.
“Hero syndrome, interesting.” Clive raises his brows at me.
“Causes the accident?” My knees start bouncing. “No way. Apps aren’t always accurate. Did you find my mom’s phone?”
Simone angles her head. “Why do you ask?”
Clive flips the printout over and jots something down on the back.
“Just wondering.” I run my hands under my sweaty thighs, my blotchy skin poking out from my jean shorts. The air in here hangs heavy, like someone’s turned off the air-conditioning, making it difficult to breathe.
“Remind us why Cody left Pete’s.” Simone rests her chin on her hand.
“He snapped his guitar string during warm-up and needed to run to the music store in Dobbs Ferry for a replacement.”
“Whose car did he borrow?”
“He didn’t tell me but I assume Adrian’s, one of his bandmates. He picked us up at the train station in White Plains earlier that evening.”
“Did he leave alone?”
I nod, not liking the look on her face.
Her eyes pick me apart. “The officers interviewed Adrian and the rest of the band and tech crew that night. No one reported loaning him a car or seeing him get into one outside the club. Either way, it’s hard to explain his body being found down in Dobbs Ferry while his phone turns up north—six miles away, in Pocantico Park—with blood on it. Did Cody have any enemies?”
“N-not that I am aware of.” The heat from my ears spreads like a fever to my face.
“He said he was going to catch a ride with someone but didn’t say who.
He rushed out pretty fast so he’d be back in time for our set.
That night meant a lot to him. He couldn’t wait to play in front of his old buddies. He’d talked about it for months.”
Clive coughs. “Miss Gallardo, do you know a Dahlia Schenkel?” Click, click goes his pen.
I swivel my head a fraction. “No.” Who the hell is that?
“Your parents’ club closed two months before the accident, correct?” Simone refolds her arms. “Were you aware they took out a second business loan the year before?”
I shake my head. “They didn’t discuss their financial issues with me; all I know is from the bits I overheard . . . like how the club wasn’t drawing the crowds like it once did. My parents were trying what they could to drum up business.”
“What kind of things?”
I stare at her, my heated face turned up to broil. “I don’t like what you’re implying. My parents would never have attempted insurance fraud. What a vile thing to suggest. They were good people. Honest . . . to a fault.”
“Would you call your relationship close?”
I blow out a hard breath. “Yes. I loved them very much.”
“They didn’t like the idea of you going on tour.”
My head snaps up. “Who told you that?” Been a while since I spoke to anyone from LaGuardia.
Tess never mentioned being questioned by the police.
She’d be the first to tell me, for the drama alone.
Maybe Lucy said something. I clasp my hands in my lap, squeeze them together.
“My parents hoped I would go to college.”
“They must have been disappointed, you being their only child. Maybe that caused some friction between them and Cody?”
“My mom and dad were coming around.” I dig my fingernails into my palms.
Simone plants her fist on the table and pushes herself up from her chair. She leans toward me, her brown eyes burning into mine. “The first night of your tour, your parents somehow flip their car and it explodes. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
I lean back, increasing the space between us. “What are you doing?”
“Did you and Cody conspire to kill your parents that night, and unfortunately, it went badly for him too?”
My pulse climbs into my throat. “No! Never! I loved my parents. They were my world, my life. They were good people. More worthy than me!”
Clive’s elbows hit the table.
I jump.
He holds the pen next to his face like a spear, his eyes slicing into me. “You’re positive your boyfriend never mentioned a Dahlia Schenkel?”
I start coughing, my throat thick and dry. I reach for my coffee, my hand shaking. “I told you . . . I have no idea who that is.” I can’t get enough air; all at once, I feel woozy.
Breathe—come on, Brynn, breathe.
My gut clenches. Horrific images thump through my brain.
Cody’s last words: The sooner I go . . .
Mom and Dad’s faces engulfed in flames.
No. No. No. These two are not going to turn this into anything more than a shitty accident.
“I-I wish it were me who died that night!”