Chapter 50. Brynn
brYNN
Mid-morning, the agency’s big room sits quiet, accompanied by a noticeable lull in walking conversations.
I lift my face out of my laptop. The long rectangular tables around me lie empty.
Meredith and Lucius left for some off-site client meeting and Josie and Priya went to grab coffee somewhere.
I’m not sure Donovan even came in today.
Perfect.
I type in my high school on my computer, pull out my phone, and dial the number on the screen. “Hi, I’m hoping you can help me. I need to contact the family of a former student.”
“Requests must be made in writing to release personal information unless you’re listed in the student’s records.” The woman’s voice sounds like car tires driving over gravel. I don’t recognize it. “Name of student?”
“Cody Waters. I was his girlfriend.”
A long silence follows.
“Brynn Gallardo. I graduated this past spring.”
“I’ll put you through to Principal Gibson, honey.”
I wait for what feels like forever. Scanning the floor, I see Donovan—ick, guess he is here—talking to Zoe, who’s grinning like the devil and dressed as one of the B-52s.
“Hi, Brynn. How are you doing?” Ms. Gibson’s voice overflows with maternal tenderness. Her face would light up whenever she’d see me in the hallway at school. Her kindness toward me always felt steadfast and genuine.
I blink away the warm liquid pooling in my eyes.
“You still there, dear?”
“Yes,” I manage, my voice raspy.
“Things are never easy after such terrible loss. What can we do for you?”
“I’d like to contact Mr. and Mrs. Waters. I wasn’t prepared to before now.”
“I understand. Let me pull Cody’s file.”
Donovan strolls back to his desk. No bag. He must have arrived before me. His eyes zero in on mine. “Ready?”
I swing the bottom of the phone away from my mouth. “For what?”
He shrugs.
“One second.”
He rounds his brows and keeps watching me.
Ugh. Stay out of my business for once. I turn my back to him.
“Cody listed only one name on his paperwork.”
His new student paperwork. I can still see his long, tapered fingers filling it out on his first day in Dr. Kendrick’s homeroom.
“Um, here it is. Silas Walker.”
“Must be a typo. You mean Waters.” I clear my throat.
“Nope. Walker. Westchester area code. Do you want the number?”
“Yes, please.”
She reads it out and I jot it down.
“I’ll try it. Thanks.”
“Hey, Brynn, do something with that voice of yours. Your gift is truly special.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it. Take care, Ms. Gibson.” I swivel my chair back around, scoping out the sea of workstations and glass conference rooms. No Donovan.
I mash my lips together and dial the number.
It rings forever. What am I going to say?
Hi there, this is Cody’s—um, your late son’s—girlfriend? We never met, but . . .
“St. Ignatius.”
She gave me the wrong number. “I was looking for Silas Walker.”
“Speaking.”
“I-I’m, was a friend of Cody Waters—um, his girlfriend.”
Like magic, Donovan reappears next to my desk.
I lift my index finger up to his face.
He stays put.
“We wondered when you’d call . . . Brynn.”
Uh-oh. My stomach reels inside. “Is this Cody’s dad?”
“Nope. That guy’s been fish food for some time now. Nasty mob hit.”
Huh? This doesn’t make sense. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m not doing this over the phone.”
“Hello? Hello?” I glance at my phone; he ended the call. Shit. What was that about? Cody’s dad is dead? Did he die in the Caymans? When did this happen? And what’s the deal with this guy’s attitude?
Foot-tapping commences next to me.
I swing around, eyes blazing. “What, Donovan? What’s so important?”
“Zoe’s been given the copy revisions for Bradley Products and Quotagian.”
Zoe writes copy? Since when? My jaw drops. “But I’m on those accounts. She’s not even on our team.”
“We think she’ll be better at following direction.” He cocks a brow.
Translation: Do not call the client behind Meredith’s back and show her up in a Scott meeting. “So what do I do now if I’m off those projects?”
He tilts his head like I’m slow to understand. “We’re swapping interns. You now report to Benji, the other account supervisor.”
“Meredith’s agreed to this?”
“She’s all in.” He walks away, whistling some bastardized version of “Happy Birthday.”
Shit. I’m being kicked to the curb.