Chapter 58. Brynn
brYNN
“Mr. Walker?”
A bald, pasty-white, fortyish-looking man lifts his head from behind his desk.
His face of concentration appears menacing until he sees me and cracks a smile from the side of his mouth, his lips blood red.
“Are you Brynn? Welcome to St. Ignatius on this fine Saturday morning. Not your first trip to Westchester, is it?” He guffaws.
My back stiffens. Does he think this is funny? “I’m surprised you knew it was me.”
“I guessed.” He motions to one of the chairs in front of him.
My gaze stops on the crucifix above his head, travels down it to the worn leather messenger bag on the credenza behind him.
I stare at the bag. “That’s Cody’s. He carried it everywhere his first week at LaGuardia. He thought he was some hot shot.”
Silas blinks. “He needed something to carry a change of clothes in.”
“Oh . . .” I swallow. “Um, Dahlia called me.”
He pinches his bottom lip while his eyes bounce to the corners of the office. “She and Teddy are still grappling with Cody being gone.”
“I miss him too.” I clear my throat. “Dahlia seems pretty hung up on him.”
His furry brows meet in the middle of his forehead. “They grew up in foster care together. They were essentially siblings.”
Huh. “I didn’t know. Teddy as well?”
He nods. “They met in elementary school. The kids used to pick on Dahlia. She was a tall, scrawny kid with low self-esteem. Cody protected her. He taught her how to play guitar—gave her confidence. When they sang together, it was really something.”
“Were you the one who sent me his things?”
“Couple of the kids took care of it. Thought you should have them. Though now that she’s told me how quickly you moved on, I regret being so benevolent.” He shrugs. “What can I say, it was a moment of weakness. Just know I did it for Cody. Not you.”
This guy’s a delight. “So you don’t know what’s in those boxes?”
“I’m sure not a hell of a lot. The kid schlepped everything he owned in a black trash bag between foster homes.
When I learned he had his heart set on that Fame school, I offered him one of the parish’s apartments if he pulled off the audition.
” He smacks his lips together. “I heard they hadn’t seen such talent since Jason Derulo went there. ”
I roll my eyes without thinking. “He didn’t go there.”
His dark gaze shuts me up. Then he looks away, shuffling papers. “What brings you here?”
“Can you tell me about Cody before LaGuardia?”
“What can I say? Kid was a Boy Scout. Biggest heart. Always sticking his neck out for others. His music helped him get through some troubling events, ones no small person should ever endure.” A shadow passes over his face, a low whistle escapes his teeth.
“Ah, Cody. My boy. No one loved being up onstage more than he did.”
“I’m learning he may have had something to do with my parents’ accident, and that Dahlia and Teddy helped him. I haven’t told the police yet—”
“Watch it,” he snaps with a force that sends a shiver through me.
“These are good kids. They face challenges you can’t begin to imagine—addicts for parents, guardians serving time.
People will take the word of someone like you over a foster kid every time.
That’s how it is. These kids have to work harder to prove their worth.
They get nothing handed to them. All they have is each other.
You’ll never see a stronger bond. And it’s one you don’t want to cross. ”
“Cody wasn’t exactly a saint.” I recross my legs, holding the edges of the chair. “He told me his parents lived in the Caymans.”
After a beat, his mouth breaks into a wicked grin. “He didn’t trust you. Interesting.”
I shake my head. “He loved and trusted me enough to ask me to partner with him on tour.”
“People do things for a number of reasons. Your parents were well-known in the music world, probably had a lot of connections, correct?”
The ceiling rises as the room and framed degrees on the wall stretch vertically and the floor drops from underneath me. I close my eyes. I’m falling, falling . . . my stomach plunges in freefall.
He clears his throat; it sounds like a truck’s engine turning over.
I open my eyes. I’m still sitting in the chair.
He gives me a hard look, waiting for my reply.
“Yes, but . . .” My voice sounds small and strange.
Silas leans back in his chair. His smug, blood-red smile swells from ear to ear.