“Come on in, Tripp.” Ms. Gallagher opens the front door with a tentative smile. “Aren’t those beautiful,” she adds, nodding at the flowers in my hand. “Let me get a vase for them, and I’ll bring them upstairs in a few minutes. Brynn’s in her room.” She lowers her voice and adds, “I’m glad she agreed to see you. She’s been shut up by herself for too long.”
I wanted to give the flowers to Brynn myself, but Ms. Gallagher looks like she’s full of nervous energy that needs an outlet, so I hand them over. “How’s Nick?” I ask, kicking off my sneakers and sliding them against the wall.
Her eyes get shiny. “The signs are positive. We’re very hopeful.”
It’s been a week since we tailed Dexter Robbins from the Winter Dance to the Sturgis-Stafford town line—where he died when Nick Gallagher slammed into him with his half-wrecked car. Nick lost consciousness almost immediately after, and he’s been in the hospital ever since. He’s in much worse shape than either me or Brynn, because it turns out he never bothered to fasten his seat belt before taking off after Ellie. He revived enough in the car to take out Dexter, but the combined impact of
hitting both the tree and Dexter was so traumatic that doctors put him into a medically induced coma until the swelling in his brain goes down.
Which I guess it hasn’t, yet.
I pulled Ellie out of Dexter’s pickup truck after Nick rammed into Dexter, and used one of my keys to cut the duct tape off her wrists. “I’m all right,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Is Brynn?” I looked over my shoulder then, to see Brynn standing with her arms dangling limply at her sides, an empty expression on her face.
“I don’t know,” I said. I still don’t.
That night, the police brought us to the hospital to get checked out, and Brynn was like me after we found Mr. Solomon’s body: practically catatonic. It scared me, because I thought maybe she’d been hurt in the accident and no one would tell me. But then one of the nurses pulled me aside. “There’s nothing wrong with her, except that she’s profoundly sad,” the nurse told me. “She says everything is her fault.”
I understood then, because if anyone knows that feeling, it’s me.
In Brynn’s case, she’s dealing with the domino effect of accidentally leading Dexter to Saint Ambrose. Every single bad thing that happened after that—including Dexter’s death and the fact that Nick ran him over— she blames herself for.
That’s what Ellie says, anyway. I haven’t heard it directly from Brynn, because she’s not talking to me. Or anyone else.
She’s been holed up in her room since last Saturday. In some ways, it’s good that she’s tucked away, because Sturgis has turned into a circus since the Winter Dance. Media vans are everywhere, with reporters crowding Saint Ambrose and downtown Sturgis, breathlessly analyzing every twist and turn of the story. Motive had a head start, of course, and Carly Diaz has been on the air constantly. I only watched one episode, the one where Rose from Mad Dog Tavern explained what kind of husband and father Dexter Robbins had been. Mason and his mother came forward with their real identities as soon as they learned about Dexter’s death, and Rose seems determined to make sure there’s no blowback for Ms. Rafferty’s decision to take off with Mason years ago.
I don’t think there will be. With Dexter gone, there’s nobody alive, anymore, who wants to see either of them punished.
Brynn told Ellie about Nick and Mr. Larkin arguing the day he died, and Ellie told the police. Which turned out to be a good thing, probably, because Shane decided he’s sick of keeping quiet and did the same thing. When Officer Patz interviewed me again, I told him as much truth as I could without edging into what I’d believed about my dad. I said I’d found the Billy medallion in the woods but hadn’t known it belonged to Mr. Larkin, and I’d lied about being with Shane and Charlotte the whole time because we’d been scared.
Both of those things are technically true, so my lies were mostly of omission. Luckily, Officer Patz doesn’t have Brynn’s ability to know when I’m not being honest, or maybe he doesn’t care. “You were just kids,” he said when I’d finished. For the first time, it occurred to me that he might always have believed that. The waves of suspicion I used to feel coming off him were probably my own misplaced guilt.
I meant to tell him that Lisa Marie took the class-trip money. I really did, but when the time came, I couldn’t get the words out. Dad offered to bring me back and do the talking, but I keep putting him off. It’s hard to focus on anything until I know that Nick—and Brynn—are going to be okay.
Everybody in the media wants to talk to me, Shane, and Charlotte, but we’re keeping a low profile. Meanwhile, reporters are having a great time diving into the Delgados’ charitable contributions—even though they, and the Sturgis Police Foundation, insist there was no quid pro quo for that big donation the year Mr. Larkin died. I don’t buy it for a second; there’s no question that Mr. and Ms. Delgado wanted to smooth things over for Shane back then. They’ve been doing it his entire life, so why would they stop when his fingerprints were on a murder weapon?
It would be a silver lining to all this, for Shane’s sake, if his parents started letting him figure out life on his own. I think he can handle a lot more than people give him credit for.
I’m lost in thought all the way up Brynn’s stairs until a voice calls, “Tripp.” Ellie’s bedroom door is open, and she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed in front of her laptop. “Hi,” she says, giving me a wan smile. “Brynn just woke up.”
I glance toward Brynn’s bedroom door, which is still closed. “Should I wait, or—”
“No, go in. She’s excited to see you.” Ellie looks more like she wishes that were true than that she actually believes it, which makes my heart sink a little.
“Good,” I say, but don’t move right away. “How are you?”
“I am…” She trails off before lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “About the same.”
“So, a low-key badass,” I say, and she snorts.
“Yeah. Such a badass, getting kidnapped from the Saint Ambrose parking lot.” Ellie closes her laptop and pushes it to the side. “My parents are going to make me see a therapist, so I can relive it on a weekly basis. Can’t wait.”
“Maybe it’ll be good, to talk to somebody.”
“Maybe.” She traces the pattern on her bedspread with one finger. “It’s not so much what Dexter did that gets to me. I barely remember that part; it’s like I disassociated the whole time I was in his truck. But everything after…Uncle Nick being hurt…” She swallows hard, then makes a face. “Ugh. Sorry. It’s not like you’re getting paid to listen to this crap.”
“I don’t mind,” I say.
Ellie waves me away. “Go see Brynn.”
“You want to come with me to Brightside Bakery after this?” I ask impulsively. She raises her eyebrows, mildly curious, and I add, “My boss has it semi-closed for now, to keep reporters out. She’s only letting her regulars in. So there are a lot of baked goods that need to be eaten. Also, she has a really fluffy dog who’s exceptional at being petted.”
“I see.” Ellie nods. “Yes. I would like that.”
“Great. I’ll get you when I’m done. Maybe Brynn will want to come too.” I don’t have a lot of hope for that, but you never know.
“Okay,” Ellie says, sounding a little more cheerful. “Oh!” she adds before I can turn away. “Guess who sent me those flowers?”
She gestures to a huge, gaudy bouquet on her dresser. Whoever it was, they were trying to make an impression. “Paige?” I ask.
“No. Mikhail Powers.” “Who?”
“Hello?” Ellie cocks her head. “Mikhail Powers Investigates? The Bayview Four? I could be the next Maeve Rojas.”
“I don’t know what half those words mean.”
She rolls her eyes. “You need to watch more true crime, Tripp.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say, even though I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less.
I cross the hall and knock lightly on Brynn’s door. “Come in,” she says in a barely audible voice. She’s in bed, propped up with a half dozen pillows, wearing a Saint Ambrose T-shirt. Her hair is loose and lifeless around her shoulders, and her face is expressionless.
“Hey,” I say, closing the door behind me. “How are you?”
“Okay,” she says. Her eyes are less glazed than they were the night Dexter died, but she still looks—What did the nurse say? Profoundly sad.
“Can I sit?” I ask. She nods, and I perch at the edge of her bed. I told myself on the way over that the right words would come once I was here. I hope they do.
“Are you feeling any better?” I ask. Great start, Tripp. She just shrugs. “You gonna go back to school anytime soon?”
She chews her bottom lip. “Eventually.”
I could punch myself for that question. It’s not like I care, and even if I did, I’m hardly the poster boy for showing up at Saint Ambrose after a crisis. I don’t know why I asked, except that it suddenly feels impossible to talk to Brynn the way I used to. I’m too afraid of saying the wrong thing and making her feel even worse.
“I’m still pretty tired,” Brynn says. “I don’t know how long I can talk.” “Yeah, sure. I won’t keep you,” I say, like her next nap is a vitally important engagement she can’t possibly miss. Then we both stare at her
comforter. This is already excruciating, and I’ve been here less than a minute. I’m not sure why she agreed to see me, when she clearly doesn’t want me here. Maybe I should leave.
The idea fills me with momentary relief until I think, Coward. She didn’t run away when you needed help.
“Do you remember what you told me in Charlotte’s guesthouse?” I ask. Brynn blinks. “No? I mean, I said a lot of things. Which one?”
“You said, ‘I want you to know you can trust me.’ Right after you quit your internship.” I pause, but she doesn’t respond. Not even another blink. “I don’t know if me quitting Brightside Bakery would have the same effect, exactly, but I’d do anything to let you know that you can trust me. You can tell me whatever you’re thinking, no matter how dark it is, because chances are, I’ve thought it too. Recently.”
Her eyes fill, but the tears don’t spill over. For a few agonizing seconds I think she’s not going to answer me, or even worse, she’s going to turn away. Then she shifts to her left, as if to make more space on the bed. “Could you…sit closer?” she chokes out, pushing her covers aside.
I move next to her, my legs stretched the length of her bed, and gingerly put an arm around her shoulders. She grabs tightly on to my T-shirt and burrows into my chest. For a few minutes, we stay like that without speaking, and then she says, voice muffled, “I wish I’d never come back to Sturgis.”
“I get it,” I say.
“I wish I hadn’t taken the job at Motive. Or gone to Mr. Solomon’s, or Mad Dog Tavern, or the Winter Dance. Then none of this would have happened.” Her breathing gets uneven. “Sometimes I even wish I hadn’t met you. Or not met, obviously, because I already knew you, but—I wish we’d never started speaking again.”
“That makes sense,” I say, and I mean it. After Mr. Solomon died, I thought my own version of the same thing about Brynn.
“I’m so scared for Uncle Nick,” Brynn says, her voice breaking. “And so sad for him too, because even if he wakes up…he killed Dexter. He’s
going to have to live with that, and he…he can’t even stand to kill spiders. He puts them outside, every time.”
“He was protecting Ellie,” I say.
“That’s my fault too. I got my sister kidnapped for a story. Because I couldn’t let it go, even when everybody told me I should.”
“I told you not to,” I remind her.
“Not when it came to Dexter. You tried to warn me off.” “You didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I say.
“But it did.” She’s crying now, full-body sobs that feel too big to fit into her small frame, and I wish there were a way to absorb them into mine. I hold her for what feels like an hour, even though it’s probably less than ten minutes. I hear someone come up the stairs—her mother, maybe, with the flowers I brought—and go back down without knocking. Eventually Brynn’s sobs taper off, changing to the occasional quiet gasp, and one of the hands grasping my T-shirt flattens over my heart. She sighs, like the steady beat is comforting.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask.
Her head moves against my chest. “Okay.”
“I don’t know much,” I say, “but here’s what I do know. I know that you weren’t just chasing a story; you were trying to help people who were hurting find peace. I know that secrets can eat you alive, and the truth can break your heart, and sometimes it’s hard to know which is worse.” I can feel my T-shirt growing wetter, but Brynn is crying quietly this time. “I know that you can have the best intentions and still get the worst results. And I know”—I pull her closer and rest my chin on the top of her head—“that you won’t always feel like this.”
“I deserve to feel like this,” she says. “You don’t. I promise you don’t.”
Brynn is quiet for so long that I’d think she’d fallen asleep if her posture weren’t so rigid and her breathing so shallow. Nothing I’ve said seems to have made a difference. She’s determined to punish herself, and who am I to say she shouldn’t? I understand the compulsion; I did the same thing for four years. Maybe we’re trapped in a cycle that just can’t be broken.
Then Brynn exhales a deep, shuddering breath and says, “Okay.” After another long pause, she lifts her head, wipes her eyes, and looks directly into mine. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m not sorry we started talking again.”
Relief balloons in my chest, but I try not to show it. “It’s fine if you—”
“I’m trying to have a moment, Tripp,” Brynn interrupts.
I instantly recognize the callback to when I was in Charlotte’s yard, drunkenly thanking Brynn for pulling the truth out of me about the day Mr. Larkin died, and I’m not sure she meant to do it, until she offers a trace of her usual smile. It’s the best thing I’ve seen all week. “I’m not sorry,” she repeats. “I’m grateful.”
I probably shouldn’t, but—“Grateful enough to kiss me?” I ask, letting her know I caught the reference. Then I make a face so she knows I’m not trying to make anything happen after she just finished crying on my shoulder.
“Not yet,” Brynn says, dropping her head back to my chest. She keeps her hand over my heart, which starts beating faster when she adds, “But soon.”
