“I might have exaggerated a little,” Brynn says when I get into her Volkswagen the next day. It’s so clean that I’d think it was brand-new, except for the fact that it doesn’t have that new-car smell. Whoever normally sits in the passenger seat—Ellie, probably—is a lot shorter than me, so I have to adjust the seat all the way back. Once I do that, I turn to look for my seat belt.
“About what?” I ask.
“Well, technically I didn’t talk to Mr. Solomon. I left him a message.”
I freeze halfway to buckling myself in. “You left him a—hold on. Are you telling me he’s not expecting us? We’re just showing up?”
A red alert starts chiming on Brynn’s dashboard as she backs out of my driveway. “You need to fasten your seat belt,” she says calmly. “And yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“We can’t do that,” I protest.
“Why not? You said he invited you. Plus, he might never check his messages. A lot of people don’t, and then where would we be?”
“Not barging in on the guy, for one thing.” The beeping sound is driving me crazy, so I finish fastening my seat belt even though I’d rather get out of the car entirely. “You know, for somebody who called me a liar, you sure like to play fast and loose with the truth.”
“I didn’t call you a liar,” Brynn says. “I called you a bad liar.”
Yeah, she did, and it’s been bugging me ever since. Why would she say something like that? Maybe she was just looking for an excuse to rattle me, which she seems to enjoy. I guess I can’t blame her, and it’s not like I’m going to ask. Instead I settle for a grumpy, “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.”
“You owe me. I took a punch for you.” She adjusts her knit hat, which is pulled down so low, there’s no possibility of seeing whether the bruise has gotten worse. She looks perfectly healthy, though, her cheeks pink from the cold and her eyes bright and clear.
Which I’m noticing as a clinical observation, to make sure a concussed person isn’t driving me around town, and not for any other reason.
“You shouldn’t have been next to me,” I say, before realizing it’s the ultimate dick move to blame someone for getting punched. Plus, I remember Brynn’s hand brushing my sleeve just before Shane pulled me away. She was there because she was trying to stop me from making a giant mistake. “Sorry. That was out of line. I’m just…”
Rattled. You rattle me, Brynn. Always have.
“It’s fine,” Brynn says, waving a hand. “Bygones. And I know I’m being a little pushy with Mr. Solomon, but it would be nice to give Ms. Kelso something positive on Monday. She’s had a rough week.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, first there was Mr. Larkin’s portrait. That really upset her. She was in charge of having it done, and she feels responsible for what happened because she didn’t keep it somewhere secure. It was just backstage in the auditorium, where pretty much anyone could have gotten to it,” Brynn says. “But also, when I asked her yesterday for Mr. Solomon’s number, she mentioned that somebody had trashed all the flyers she’d made for the memorial garden committee.”
“Threw them out?” I ask.
“No. Scribbled over Mr. Larkin’s face in every single one. Well, scribbled sounds kind of harmless, doesn’t it? It was more like…angry red slashes.”
“Well, shit.” I’m quiet for a beat, absorbing that. “Somebody really didn’t like Mr. Larkin, huh?”
“Ms. Kelso thinks it’s directed at her.”
“Seriously?” I ask. I can’t picture it; Ms. Kelso is like everyone’s favorite grandmother. Even the self-proclaimed dregs don’t give her a hard time. “Why would she think that?”
“I guess she can’t imagine anyone hating Mr. Larkin that much.” Brynn makes a turn onto Spruce Road, the long, winding street that leads to Mr. Solomon’s house. Most Sturgis kids know where he lives because his house backs up against the soccer fields, and we’d always pass it on our way to buy ice cream after practice. He usually worked in his garden on weekends, and would wave as we passed. “Especially since he’s been gone for almost four years. I mean, can you think of a reason?”
I don’t like the way she asks the question; like there must be a sinister answer that only I know. “Nope,” I say shortly, and shift in my seat to look out the window.
We drive in silence until Brynn passes a mailbox with the number thirty-nine on it and says, “Here we are.” She slows to a crawl and turns into the unpaved driveway. I flip the sun visor up, expecting to see the same pristine little bungalow I remember, but that’s not what’s in front of us. The yard is littered with tools, debris, and an oversized blue tarp half-covered with ice. The flower boxes beneath the windows, and two large planters flanking the stairs leading to the front door, are full of dead plants. “Um. Are we sure he still lives here?” Brynn asks, pulling to a stop beside a rusty black pickup.
“We aren’t sure of anything,” I say. “This is your field trip.” She bites her lip, looking worried enough that I relent and say, “Yeah, he lives here. That’s his truck.”
“Okay, well, here goes nothing,” she says.
We climb out of the car and approach the front stoop, stepping over a scattering of loose bricks that look as though they’ve been there for a while. Brynn presses the yellowing doorbell, and a loud chime sounds. We wait in silence for a minute, and she presses again. This time I hear a clattering noise from somewhere inside, but nobody comes to the door. “Mr. Solomon?” Brynn calls, cupping her hand beside her eye to peer through the dusty windowpanes next to the door. “It’s Brynn Gallagher from Saint Ambrose. Are you home?”
“If he is, he doesn’t want to talk to you,” I finally say. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet,” Brynn says. “I could swear I heard someone. Maybe we should try the back door.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just troops down the stairs and rounds the corner of the house. After a moment’s hesitation, I follow.
Mr. Solomon’s backyard is worse than the front, filled with half a dozen rusted wheelbarrows, and empty planters stacked so high that they’re tilting dangerously. The space used to be open when we were kids, but now it’s surrounded by a short wooden fence. Brynn is standing at the gate, brow furrowed as she fumbles with the latch.
“What are you doing?” I call, lengthening my strides. “You can’t just open that.”
“It’s the only way to get to the back door,” Brynn says, head down. “I don’t understand how this works, though.”
I forgot how hopeless Brynn is at anything that requires spatial awareness. “You pull and lift,” I say, popping the latch. “But I don’t think
—”
There’s a loud click from the direction of the house. Brynn’s hand seizes mine, and clutches so tight that it hurts. She’s gone completely rigid, eyes fixed in front of us. When I follow her gaze, I find myself staring into the barrel of a shotgun.
“Oh shit,” I breathe. My heart gives a panicky leap, and my mouth goes dry. I’ve never seen a gun before, except behind glass at a museum. This one, even from twenty feet away, looks cannon-sized and deadly. A half dozen thoughts crowd my brain all at once. I’ll miss Regina and Al. I
haven’t seen my mother in two years. I never got to leave Sturgis. I never made up for any of the things I did wrong, and I never apologized to…
“Brynn,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?” Brynn hisses, squeezing my hand even tighter. “Did you know this was going to happen?”
“No, I just…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Seconds tick by with no sound except for our breathing, and my tunnel vision expands to take in the man in front of us. He’s short and white-haired, dressed in a checked flannel shirt that’s too big for his frame, and even though his face is half-hidden by the barrel of the gun, my heart rate slows as I process who it is.
I never would’ve expected Mr. Solomon to pull a gun on anyone, so all of this is new territory, but I’m reasonably confident he won’t pull the trigger.
“Mr. S!” I call. “It’s Tri—it’s Noah Talbot. You asked me to come by, remember?”
“Thieves!” he barks out. “Think you can sneak around and take what’s mine?”
“No. Definitely not.” Somehow, without my even realizing it, I’ve put up the hand that Brynn isn’t holding, like an old-time bank teller getting robbed. “We just wanted to talk to you.”
“Goddamn thieves and trespassers,” he snarls. Then he lowers the gun a fraction, like my words finally sank in. “Wait. Noah?” he asks doubtfully. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I confirm. “Could you maybe put the gun all the way down?”
He ignores the request and jerks his head toward Brynn. “Who’s this?” Brynn calls, “Brynn Gallagher, Mr. Solomon. I went to Saint Ambrose,
remember?”
“No,” he says shortly. But he finally lowers the gun, and both Brynn and I exhale noisily. “Why are you trying to break into my garden?”
“Yeah, Brynn, why are you?” I mutter, which earns me a glare.
“Well, actually, Mr. Solomon, we wanted to talk to you about gardens.” She glances around us at the ruins of what used to be Mr. Solomon’s pride and joy. “The school is putting one together for Mr. Larkin, like a memorial garden? Tripp and I—I mean, Noah and I—are in charge of plantings, but we don’t know what to choose. We don’t know what’s good for something like that.” Mr. Solomon just stares at her without moving a muscle, and Brynn shoots me a helpless look. I don’t know how she thought this was going to go, but I’m sure she didn’t picture shouting questions over a gate at an armed man. “So, we thought we’d ask you.” It’s not a question, exactly, but her voice lilts hopefully at the end.
“I’m busy,” Mr. Solomon says.
“Oh, sure,” Brynn says. “We should’ve—I should’ve called. Well, I did call, but…anyway. We could come back? Another time, maybe?”
“You can come back,” Mr. Solomon says, his voice finally softening. “Always nice to see Saint Ambrose kids. But I’m not talking to you about any goddamn garden.”
“You’re not?” Brynn asks doubtfully, gazing around at Mr. Solomon’s wasteland of a backyard. “Do you not, um, like gardens anymore?”
“I like them fine,” Mr. Solomon says. Brynn’s eyes cut toward me, confused.
I shrug, mouthing, He’s not all there.
She finally notices that she’s still holding my hand, and drops it like I’m burning her, which makes me annoyed that I didn’t pull away first. “I might not have explained things right,” she says. “The garden we’re doing is a memorial garden for Mr. Larkin, to celebrate his—”
“I know what a memorial garden is,” Mr. Solomon interrupts. “And I’m not interested in helping you with this one.” Mr. Solomon tucks his gun under his arm and turns for the door, calling, “Take care, Noah,” over his shoulder. “See you at Brightside.”
“What the hell?” Brynn murmurs. She raises her voice and calls, “Why not?”
Mr. Solomon is at the door now, and at first I think he’s going to ignore her. But instead of reaching for the knob, he pauses with one hand on the
railing, and half turns to face us.
“Because that son of a bitch got what he deserved,” he says. Then he walks inside and slams the door behind him.
