Chapter 48. Brynn
brYNN
“Eunice, hi. This package needs to go to Quotagian. Where should I leave it?”
“Over there.” She points her elbow behind her to the table under the phallic rocket painting.
“Thanks. Um . . . so how’s Micah doing?”
“How the hell should I know?” Her gaze doesn’t veer from her computer screen.
Old grump. Not the welcoming face you want at an ad agency—or any company. I press on a smile. “Thought you two were close.” I circle behind her desk.
The good-looking guy from Caffé Dante—Teddy, that’s his name—strides through the glass doors in a black Falcon Messenger polo and holds out a hand. “I’ll take that.”
His voice is smooth like a baritone, his accent almost charming. I remember him performing; he moved rather fluidly for a guy.
He relieves me of the package before I can tear my attention away from his dark, feathery lashes.
“You and that blonde girl both work at Falcon and Caffé Dante?” I blurt out.
He narrows his eyes. “Ya mean Dahlia?”
Dahlia, Dahlia. Sounds familiar . . . “Wait, Dahlia Schenkel?”
His eyes widen, his lips clamp shut.
Tiny hairs rise up the back of my neck. That young detective, Clive Bodie, kept insinuating that I knew her. Has she been watching me this whole time? “Uh, never mind.” I back away, my legs swaying underneath me. I brace myself on the side of Eunice’s desk.
Eunice jumps to her feet. “We’re done here.” She shoos Teddy back through the double glass doors.
I turn to her, shaking like a bobblehead.
“You’re welcome.” Her rat eyes narrow.
I flounder back to my desk and collapse in my chair.
The workstations around me sit empty. Everyone must be in meetings.
I open my browser and click on the search bar.
My hands hover over the keyboard, my chest thundering.
I shake my head, blow out a breath, and stand up, my legs itching to sprint somewhere.
I lap the first floor a couple of times, eyeing the uneaten bagels from this morning. I run my hands under hot water in the bathroom and camp out in one of the stalls until my thighs go numb. I rewash my hands and return to my desk. I doodle a few flowers on a notepad I stole from Priya’s desk.
Times moves like two slugs racing.
At five o’clock, I close my laptop and jump to my feet. At the double glass doors, I spin around to Eunice at her desk. “I don’t know if you’ve heard some things about me . . . Anyway. I wanted to thank you for earlier.”
Her eyes stay on her book.
I sigh, swing my bag over my arm, and push on one of the glass doors.
“I lost my parents too . . . in Saigon.” Her voice vibrates so low, I almost didn’t hear her. “The Viet Cong detonated a car bomb under our hotel on Christmas Eve.”
I inch back toward her desk. “Geez.”
She fills the skin under her bottom lip with her tongue. “A week before my ninth birthday.” She pulls her elbows into her body, shrinking.
I stare, open-mouthed. “Mind if I ask, how did you survive? How did you . . . move on?”
Her pointy shoulders rise off her hunched back, her lips disappear.
I’ve overstepped once again. Of course I have.
“How did I move on?” Her beady eyes grow twice in size, her face childlike. “I’m still there.”
I freeze, waiting for an explanation.
She shakes her head like I’m too thick to understand.
She stares off as if searching for the words.
“A soldier pulled me from the rubble. I screamed, wanting to stay with my parents. What was left of them.” She shudders.
“I couldn’t understand, why did that bomb take them and not me?
I wasn’t strong like them, I was just a little girl.
What could I do?” Her voice locks up. “Anger ate at me. I thought my hate made me strong. Resilient. I’d show them.
Then one day, the truth became clear: Biting into the bitter apple let those terrorists win.
Don’t you see? They’ve still got me there, buried under the rubble.
Don’t you do it . . . don’t let evil win. ”
A chill runs down my spine. “What if I don’t know who the evil is?”
She sends me a blank look. “Then you’re screwed.”
I skip the subway after work and walk the eighteen blocks up Fifth Avenue, passing the main library at Fortieth to the Fifty-Third Street branch like I’ve done countless times since my parents died. After seeing Teddy today, I need answers.
Don’t let evil win. I’m trying, Eunice, I’m trying.
I feel it in my bones that Dahlia had something to do with what happened that night.
It took everything inside of me not to search her name at work.
My teammates enjoy being all up in my business too much as it is; I’d rather not feed the gossip-whores like Donovan or give anyone else a reason to think I’m lying about knowing Dahlia or her connection to that night.
The air-conditioning blasts the sweat beads on my skin as I walk through the sun-drenched lobby and around the sunken amphitheater.
I pass the backs of people hanging out on the light oak bleachers, some wearing headphones and watching a sporting event on the main screen.
I continue to the computer area. A memory floats by of coming here before the big renovation with my parents to get the latest Percy Jackson book.
I’ll find out who did this to you, Mom and Dad. I swear.
I join the short line waiting to use a computer.
A librarian I’ve never seen before grants me access to one on the end.
I lower myself into the chair, my legs burning after my speed-walk up here. I scan my library card and enter the pin. I type in my parents’ names. The same old article appears. No updates. I’ve read this one so many times, I could recite it from memory.
I hesitate before scrolling down to their picture, identical to the one next to my bed of them performing during a headliner’s encore—a tradition at the Flaming Flamingo that would send the crowd roaring.
A familiar ache edges into my chest.
The trouble with traditions is, they fail to evolve . . . No matter how many times I asked, I was never good enough for that stage.
I type in Cody’s name and click on the link.
MAN KILLED OUTSIDE MUSIC STORE IN DOBBS FERRY
DOBBS FERRY, NEW YORK (WNBC) – 19-YEAR-OLD CODY WATERS, A RESIDENT OF ELMSFORD, NEW YORK, WAS STRUCK BY A CAR OUTSIDE OF THE MUZIC STORE ON CEDAR STREET IN DOBBS FERRY AND PRONOUNCED DEAD AT THE SCENE AT APPROXIMATELY 11:18 SATURDAY EVENING.
AN INVESTIGATION IS UNDERWAY. ANYONE WITH ANY INFORMATION IS REQUESTED TO CONTACT THE ELMSFORD VILLAGE POLICE DEPARTMENT.
Your death remains a mystery, my sweet Cody. I release a long sigh. What happened to you? If only I could reverse that night and never let you leave Pete’s.
My nose begins to run at the same time the new librarian walks behind my chair. I straighten my back and watch her exit my peripheral.
I open YouTube and search “Cody Waters LaGuardia High School.” Several clips of his school performances pop up, posted by fellow classmates. One caption reads: GONE TOO SOON BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN.
Someone named Gabriella posted one of him singing a solo onstage.
His face appears rounder, less angular, his body thicker—looks like it was taken before his growth spurt.
It’s gotten more than ten thousand views.
I don’t recognize the stage. Must be at his first high school.
Who the hell is Gabriella? President of his fan club?
I search all the Dahlia Schenkels out there and find one in North Carolina, another in Indiana. Neither resembles the blonde I’ve met. She’s not on social media, either. Odd.
My forty-five-minute session expires. I grab a couple of the library’s blank checkout cards, once glued inside of books to record borrower’s name and due dates, to use as scrap paper, and exit into a hanging curtain of heat waiting for me outside.
Traveling home on a near-empty subway car, my legs grow restless.
I recross them, trying to shake off the creepy-crawly sensations running through them.
Two young girls sitting across the aisle from me laugh, their outfits, like their feet, intertwined.
A man leans near one of the doors, holding a brown bag with grease spots.
My stomach rumbles.
The express train’s high-pitched roar rattles my teeth and thoughts, like how Dahlia works at Caffé Dante, right across the street from Micah’s house, and at the same messenger company employed by Kershaw McKenzie. I would love to know when she took those jobs.
According to Tess, Dahlia and Teddy went to another performing arts high school in the city.
Still doesn’t explain their connection to Cody.
Maybe his parents will know. Someone at LaGuardia’s admissions office should have their number.
After all this time, they need to know that I—the love of his life—exist. Maybe we can spread his ashes together, like Tess said, if they haven’t already.
My knees start bouncing. Three more stops.
Cody often asked when we could hang out with my parents. I think deep down it was because he missed his. They didn’t call him much. He also knew how much I’d enjoyed spending time with mine before they went AWOL. He could be sweet like that, wanting me to be happy.
I push that memory aside and pick up the pace once I’m out on the street at West Fourth. I pass the entrance to the coffin on Bleecker and turn down MacDougal.
I meander past Caffé Dante a couple of times before pausing and loitering in front, one eye on my phone, the other stealing glances at the servers inside. I don’t see Dahlia, only Teddy with a smile between his ears, talking with someone.
He refills the long-haired girl’s glass . . . oh my god . . . it’s Tess.
She must have gone back to flirt with him after we met for coffee. Wait. Wasn’t her going-away party, the one I ditched, weeks ago? She said she was leaving for Stanford the next day. What’s she still doing in the city?
My stomach tightens. I hurry away from the windows. Hell if I’m going to go in there now.
I peek back at Micah’s, wrap my arms around my waist, and squeeze, wishing he was here to bury me in his arms. I know I pushed him away, but he’s what I need right now. Those eyes. His lips. A distraction from all this stressing. I hate being that girl who needs a guy, but I could use a friend.
If the detectives think Dahlia and I are somehow connected to what happened the night my parents and Cody died, I need to find out why.
I’ll track you down soon, Miss Butterfingers. Count on it.