Chapter 54. Brynn
brYNN
The timer sounds and the water cuts off. I haven’t finished rinsing off; soap burns my eyes. Damn communal bathroom. I swear one day I’ll have my own private bath, linger in a hot, steamy shower for however long I want.
I twist the ends of my hair, releasing the excess water, and throw my towel around my shoulders.
A faint knock sounds. Shit.
“Just a minute!” My robe. Shoot! I left it hanging on the back of my door. I’ve never forgotten it before.
I blow out a hard exhale. My brain’s been off since seeing Rikki yesterday. Glad the agency gives us half-days on Fridays; I don’t think I would have made it through a full eight hours there today.
For a moment yesterday, it felt like Rikki and I had slipped back to seventh grade, when my dad would entertain us after school with one of his Flaming Flamingo stories—like the time some lead singer stripped onstage and relieved himself in the middle of a set.
Or when Dad showed Rikki how to cut up peppers, telling them to wear gloves when slicing jalapenos, because once he’d forgotten to protect his hands and used the bathroom afterward.
Dad said he couldn’t stand up straight for an hour.
We laughed so hard, tears streamed down our faces.
Even during the early years of high school, I’d arrive home after show choir and find Mom and Dad in the kitchen discussing their day over a glass of wine before dinner, ready to hear about mine.
Then, one day, a major headliner pulled out of their contract.
A Rolling Stone article soon followed: FLAMING FLAMINGO FADES.
It claimed the once famed venue no longer held its cult-like status among musicians and audiences—its heyday was over.
A couple of bad weeks turned into more bad months, making it near impossible for my parents to book bands.
Longer hours at the club began to erode our family time, replaced by broken promises that things would return to normal.
We just need a few more weeks, Brynn. Be patient.
A week could pass where we had no interactions outside of scribbled sticky notes stuck to the microwave.
B, PLEASE TAKE TRASH OUT BEFORE BED
MOM, WE NEED MORE CEREAL
B, FOOD MONEY
MOM, WE HAVE TO PAY FOR MY SCHOOL COSTUME
MOM, COSTUME
MOM?
The stress led to Dad’s stomach ulcer. I’d tease him about his chalky lips from all the antacids he consumed. He went to a couple of doctors, cut out fatty and spicy foods, and said he felt better.
Thinking about them makes me miss Micah. Is he ever coming back—and what then?
Someone knocks again.
“One second!” I wrap my towel under my arms like a dress.
It comes up short around my thick body. I spread my hand over my exposed hip, the other holding the towel across my breasts.
My hand hovers over the knob. Please be gone, whoever you are.
I count backward from three, and on two dash down the hallway, my wet flip-flops slapping the floor.
One of the corridor lights appears to be out. I didn’t notice that earlier.
A tall, broad figure stands at the far end of the hall.
I jam my key in my door and yank it open. In one seamless motion, I slam it shut and secure the deadbolt behind me. Safe inside, I grab my robe at last and shrug myself into it.
My stomach rumbles from the smell of sautéed garlic and onions seeping through the wall. Doesn’t anyone eat out anymore?
My phone rings on my mattress. I don’t recognize the number; I let it ring until it stops.
I’m looking out the window to gauge the weather when the same number lights up my phone again. Fine, I’ll bite.
“Hello?” I clear the unexpected cobwebs from my throat.
I hear muted street sounds from the other end, but no one’s speaking.
“Excuse me? Is anyone there? Who are you trying to reach?”
“Brynn Gallardo.” This girl sounds young.
I freeze. “And you are?”
Long pause. “A friend of Cody’s.”
I inhale a sharp breath.
“You should get your story straight before you go back to the cops.”
The room spins. “Who is this?”
Silence.
I glance down at the phone. “Hello?” I squeeze my forehead.
“You moved on rather quickly, don’t you think?”
Blood rushes to my face like a fever. “Do I know you? How did you get this number?”
Through the phone I hear a trash truck going by.
“From the FedEx package you gave Teddy.”
I sigh, clenching my jaw. “What do you want from me . . . Dahlia, that’s your name, right? Tell me, were you with my boyfriend that night?” I dig my teeth into my bottom lip and pace. “I have to know, please.”
I swear, this girl better not hang up. I’ll track her skinny ass down.
She coughs, then no sound. She coughs again. “Cody texted me for a ride to the music store. On the way, we saw a car flip on the other side of the highway. We stopped to help.” Her voice falters.
My vision blurs. I blow out a hard breath.
“He tried to save them.”
My fingertips fly to my lips. He did it for me.
“I’ll never forget their screams.”
My stomach lurches. I cup my hand over my mouth. “No . . . at the hospital, when I identified their . . . um, the officer said it’s likely the explosion killed my parents, that they didn’t s-suffer. One of the officers told me that . . . someone told me that!”
She clears her throat. “The explosion threw Cody. He was still conscious.”
“Wait, what?”
“We got him into the car, and then on the way—”
I spin halfway around. “Who’s we?”
“Teddy and me. We carried him back to the car . . .”
“I have a couple of friends in town coming to see us,” he’d said. “Did you . . . help my parents?” I punch the side of my leg so her answers come faster. It doesn’t work.
“I called 911,” she adds like an afterthought.
“Wait . . . something’s off.” I back up, feeling for the mattress by my heels; my Jell-O legs give way and I collapse onto it. “They found Cody in Dobbs Ferry outside the music store. The police reported it as a hit and run.”
My phone goes quiet. Not again.
Wait.
I gasp. “You staged it? I don’t understand. Why move his body and take his phone?”
“Didn’t want people jumping to conclusions, not understanding what happened.”
I pop up from the mattress and resume pacing. “You’re the ‘jogger’ who found his phone in the park . . . The detectives kept asking if I knew you. Why turn in his phone now?”
“People should know he died a hero, trying to save your parents.”
I stop in my tracks. “How would his phone do that?”
“Um.” She hesitates. “It just would.”
The location-sharing app. Clive pointed out how their car made a second loop. Dahlia knows he used the app that night.
“Why didn’t you tell the police what happened? Unless . . . he used his phone to track their car and it would incriminate him.”
“I-I didn’t say that—”
“Who drove? Did you cause the accident?”
“No!”
“Why would you help him do this? You’re as much of a murderer as he is.”
“We didn’t cause it,” she shoots back. “We just saw it.”
“You turn his phone into the police, acting like you found it, when in fact you had it this whole time.” I connect the pieces in real time. “They discover Cody was at the accident. I’m called in for questioning because they think we planned this. Is this your way to get back at me?”
She doesn’t respond.
I rub my temples. “I’m guessing the police don’t know any of this. Do his parents, or were they kept in the dark like me?”
She releases a hollow laugh. “What parents? Cody was a ward of the state.”
I swivel back around. “Are we talking about the same person? I stayed at their Upper West Side apartment.”
“Uh . . . Silas has access to a place up there; it belongs to the church where he works.”
Silas . . . Silas Walker? The name Cody put on his new student paperwork.
I shake my head. “Wait—his parents have a house in the Caymans; he went on trips with them to Europe.”
She scoffs. “He’d never been outside of the Tri-State area.”
I pull hard on my scalp. No, no, no! “His band toured the States!”
“I loved him, but Cody was a showman. Probably thought you’d think less of him if you knew he was a foster kid. Most people do.”
“I don’t believe any of this!” I shout, making my head hurt. “You read about my parents’ accident. You’re making this up. You’re obsessed with him. Trying to hurt me!”
She sighs into the phone. “Cody was a good person. And it got him killed. Your parents treated him like he’d never be good enough for you. He needed to show them what he could do.”
“My parents loved me.” Their miracle baby. “They didn’t deserve—”
“You don’t know what Cody went through, growing up in foster care. Not all people foster kids out of kindness.” Her voice drops. “The tour gave him a way out. A chance to take control of his life for once and make a name for himself.”
“You mean for us. CB Drunken Waters stood for Cody and Brynn.”
She squeals like a pinched harmonic on a guitar. “Guess you didn’t know his middle name. It was his band; you were just his backup singer.”
“Duet partner.” I grit my teeth.
“People came to see him perform, the handsome guy with the soulful voice—”
“Stop. Just stop!” I stomp my feet, clenching my fist. “We loved each other. We were going to climb the charts together. No one could touch us.”
“Cody never let anyone outshine him.” I hear the smirk in her delivery. “You were never going to steal his spotlight.”