by E. C. Diskin
Brooklyn said nothing.
“At the orphanage . . . ,” the girl continued. “My mom said . . .”
“Ew,” a boy chimed in. “You’re like a farm animal!”
Several of the others snickered, and the teacher said, “That’s enough. Let’s not get sidetracked.”
The next week, when the kids were dismissed for Sunday school, Brooklyn stayed in the pew. “Go on,” her mom nudged.
“I’d like to hear the sermon,” Brooklyn whispered. “Sunday school is for little kids.”
Mom smiled and took her hand. “My baby’s growing up.”
So when Brooklyn turned thirteen and Pastor Neil suggested she join the teen group, she’d expected a dinner discussion that evening. But after he walked away, her mom had leaned over and said, “You don’t have to do it, baby.” It almost seemed like Mom understood what Brooklyn could never say. “Pastor Gary,” her mom continued, “used to be in charge. He left when you were about seven. Now, he was great, and the kids loved him. And so handsome,” she added with a wink. “Dimples, dirty-blond. Just a cutie.”
Brooklyn smiled and nodded, relieved that there would be no further discussion. Pastor Neil was a creep, always putting his hands on Brooklyn’s shoulders when he talked to her mom about how important it was to stay on the righteous path and avoid the devil’s temptations. It didn’t help that his hair receded in a way that gave him a Dracula-like widow’s peak.
Her salvation wasn’t going to be that church. The best escape for her had turned out to be acting—spending hours every day pretending to be someone or somewhere else.
But Ginny had been one of those girls—a leader, even. And yet she’d never gone to church with Brooklyn and their parents when she visited for Easter and Christmas. She’d never said a negative word about the church, but by the time Brooklyn was twelve, she’d noticed Ginny’s rejection of it.
And now, to see that she’d once been so involved, such an achiever—it was impossible not to think something had happened that threw her life off course.
Brooklyn thought about Dad’s comment that first night at the hospital. He forgave Ginny. And he’d never tell. What did she do? And if it was something that happened years ago, why would it be on his mind? Was it possible that he had called Ginny home on Sunday, like she said, that they’d been talking about the past when he fell? Was that why she was lying?
None of it made sense.
The swirl of questions was exhausting. Brooklyn switched off the desk lamp and started for the door. The dark room was now bathed in light from the stairwell in the hall, and something glimmered at the end of the shelf by the wall, drawing her attention. Dad’s gun safe. The little steel-plated door was half-open. She stepped toward it, like a little kid drawn to an opened treasure chest. She’d never seen it open. She pulled back on the open door. It was empty.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DAY SEVEN
8:20 p.m.
BOLINE COUNTY JAIL
BROOKLYN LAY ON HER MATTRESS, examining the outlines of water spots on the ceiling, fighting back her mind’s masochistic desire to replay her day in painful detail. If she let herself go there, she’d start to scream and never stop. Getting out of here was the only thing she could focus on. Only the descending darkness outside that tiny window let her know that about an hour had passed. And no one had come for her.
The door at the end of the hall opened again, echoing down the otherwise silent corridor. It was the only sound that gave Brooklyn some hope that this nightmare might soon end. But the man in the cell beside her, who’d briefly given up on trying to make conversation, spoke up quickly.
“Dinnertime,” he said.
He was right. After the guard delivered the trays and left, Brooklyn stared down at the shriveled peas alongside a mysterious meat patty covered in a beige sauce.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” her neighbor said, “but I’ve actually seen worse.”
Brooklyn put the tray on the ground and returned to her bed.
“Come on, man,” he said. “Gotta talk over dinner at least, right?”
Brooklyn remained silent.
“How ’bout a little gossip? You know Darius Woods, the actor?”
Brooklyn looked at the wall between them.
“Still not talkin’, huh? You must know who that is, right? He got an Oscar nomination in January? Went to Eden High? He’s over at Burns Memorial right now. Shot in the back. National news. You must have heard.”
She opened her mouth, unsure if she should say anything.
“I just wondered if you knew how he was doing. He’s the reason I’m in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Holy crap. Sorry, I just assumed you were a man. What’s your name?”
“Why did you say that about Darius Woods?” Brooklyn asked, ignoring his question.
“Why, you know him?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s all BS. They can’t pin anything on me. Not that I don’t wish him dead. That crap nugget almost killed me once. It’s been twenty years, but every time it rains, I get shoulder pain that reminds me of that guy. Amazing how Hollywood celebrities are all assumed to be great people. They don’t know Darius Woods.”
Brooklyn sat up and gripped the edge of the mattress beneath her. Shoulder pain. Twenty years ago. She knew who was in the cell beside her. She was glad for the thick wall between them.
“So what did you do, anyway?” the man asked.
“Nothing,” she said barely above a whisper.
The man laughed. “Exactly. I’ll rephrase. What do they think you did?”
“They think I killed my father.” The word they caught in her throat. What if everyone believed it? She needed a story. A way to explain what happened.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DAY THREE
Wednesday, May 15
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, GINNY WOKE at eight, struck by a torturous headache. She rolled over to the empty space beside her in the bed, vaguely recalling a text from Simon the night before. Something about needing to get to the hospital early for surgery, which meant she needed to drive the kids to school, a task he usually handled on his way to work. School started at eight. She sat up abruptly, wincing from the sudden movement, threw the covers back, and raced down the hall to wake the kids. They usually pounced on top of her if she slept through the alarm. They must have both overslept as well. She didn’t need Simon hearing about how the kids were late because of her.
Mikey’s room was empty. She raced down the hall. Lyla’s bed was piled high with stuffed animals. They were gone. She called their names. Nothing. She ran down the stairs to the kitchen. Remnants of breakfast—half-empty cereal bowls, banana peels, and a smattering of Cheerios—sat atop the kitchen table along with a note: Couldn’t wake you. I got kids off to school and had to cancel a surgery. Thanks. Simon.
She collapsed into the chair. Another failure. She didn’t think she’d had that much to drink, but the evening felt hazy. She remembered putting them to bed. She’d read Lyla a story. She must have fallen asleep before Simon got home.
Ginny slowly went back upstairs, got dressed, and made all the beds. She propped Lyla’s favorite bunny on her pillow and scooped up Mikey’s Legos into a bin, inspecting both rooms before heading downstairs, determined to clean up her life. Again. She’d turned to alcohol for four straight days. Thirteen years of sobriety out the window. But it wasn’t helping. It was making everything worse.
She rinsed the cereal bowls, wiped the kitchen table, and made coffee.
The doorbell rang.
Peering out the living room window at a police car in the driveway, the pain in her head instantly spread down into her neck and shoulders. Her stomach began to burn from anxiety. When she opened the front door, Sherriff Wilson was there.
“Hey, Sheriff,” she said, attempting nonchalance, despite knowing he’d driven thirty miles from Eden to see her. “What brings you out here?” She needed to appear obli
vious.
“Can I come in, Ginny?”
“Of course. You want some coffee?”
“That would be great.”
The kitchen fell silent while she poured him a cup and filled her own mug before joining him at the table. He seemed entirely too comfortable with the silence. “So how are your kids?” she finally asked.
“Maggie and Rick are busy with their families. They’re doing great. Eddie is struggling a bit. He’s living with me now.”
“I’m sorry. He was always a nice kid.” She didn’t know what else to say. The sheriff had no idea what had happened between them that night at the Garden. She’d never spoken to Eddie again. “Please tell him I say hello.”
“I’ll do that, Ginny. He’s always had such a crush on you. I’m sure that’ll make his day.” The sheriff took another sip.
Ginny couldn’t handle the suspense. “I’m worried about my dad,” she blurted.
“He’s a tough old bird. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Unfortunately, he’s not the first friend to break a hip.”
“It’s not that,” she continued. “He gets confused a lot. I think he has dementia.”
The lines between his eyebrows deepened as he considered it. “I was with him on Sunday at the store. Had coffee together. Seemed fine to me.”
She sipped her coffee. The sheriff saw her dad far more than she did. How could she convince him that his mind was going?
Finally, Sheriff Wilson put down his mug and sat back. “There’s been a development, and I thought it better if you and I discuss it here.”
Here we go. “Okay,” she said softly, before taking a sip of her coffee.
“Ginny, I’ve known you since you were just a little girl, and even though I’m an officer of the law, I want you to know that, if I can, I will help you any way possible, okay?”
She said nothing.
“You remember Darius Woods?”
“The actor? Sure, he went to high school with us.” And then, before she could stop herself, she added, “But I barely knew him.” She took another sip, instantly regretting the comment . . . it was a lie too easy to unravel. Even her Facebook account would confirm their connection.
“But you were on crew in the drama department, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“So you knew him,” he said, nodding his head as if he already knew the rest.
She kept her eyes on the coffee. “Sure, I mean, obviously we’re acquaintances.”
“Do you know where he lived back in high school?”
“I mean, generally, probably. I don’t know if I could point out his house or anything.”
“Do you know why Woods is in town?”
She hesitated, but the secret was out. “Brooklyn met his dad at the hospital yesterday. He said Darius is going to make a movie set in Eden.”
“That’s right,” the sheriff said. “Have you read the screenplay?”
She took a sip before answering, wondering if it was possible that he knew she’d gotten a copy. But he couldn’t, could he? Unless . . . She shook her head before any words came out. She couldn’t do it. “Of course not,” she said. “Why would I?”
“Just curious,” the sheriff said. “A copy of that screenplay is coming my way. I thought you might want to talk to me before this goes too far.”
Darius had changed names in the script, but there was no doubt that the sheriff would figure it out once he read the story. Ginny’s thoughts turned to the .38 hidden upstairs in her closet.
“Ginny, someone saw a woman outside Woods’s house the other night.”
Her gaze moved from the coffee to the sheriff. “What are you talking about?”
“The night he was shot . . .”
“I wasn’t—”
“Just stop for a second. Before you say anything, let me tell you what we know, okay? Woods was shot with a .38. The neighbor didn’t have a full license plate, but the last four digits match yours. She was pretty sure the person in the car was female—a blonde. We know you were in Eden that night because you were the one who got your dad to the hospital, right?”
“What in the world are you suggesting?”
“Your husband has a registration for a .38 Special, and I can vividly recall your blue ribbon at the fair twenty-odd years ago . . . the first girl to win that gun-range contest, with her dad’s .38.”
“You think I shot him?”
“I’m not saying anything yet, but this feels a little familiar, doesn’t it?”
Ginny didn’t say a word, trying to take in the stacking innuendo, the reference to events of two decades ago that had nearly destroyed her. The sheriff remained quiet as well, as if the weight of silence between them would break her.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she finally said. “I was never even charged with a crime.”
“Thanks to that pastor,” Sheriff Wilson said. “A little tough for the FBI to build a case against a teen when the entire church leadership is willing to testify about her being at church at the time. But you and I both know you were there. Maybe Woods knew that too.”
Ginny said nothing.
“Your dad is one of my closest friends, Ginny. I don’t want to build a case against his child. But suddenly there’s reason to believe you were at the scene. I don’t have much else to work with, and if Woods dies, this will be a homicide investigation and I’m only going to be the sheriff for a few more days. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
Ginny held her cup in both hands, watching to be sure they remained steady as she sipped her coffee and replayed the details of her drive to Darius’s house in the downpour, trying to calculate, for the thirtieth time, how the chips would fall when the truth came out.
“Have you even asked Darius what happened?” she asked. “Did he see anything?”
“Don’t know yet. If he pulls through, you can bet I’ll ask him.”
She couldn’t speak. Someone seeing her on Darius’s street couldn’t be determinative, could it? It’s not like someone saw her holding a gun. There were other reasons she might have been there—though in that moment, she couldn’t imagine a single explanation that would help the situation.
She set her mug on the table. “I didn’t do anything.”
Before the sheriff could reply, she stood and walked to the hall closet and grabbed the lockbox on the high shelf. “Here,” she said, returning and setting the box on the table. “Simon’s .38. Take it, test it, whatever. I can’t imagine why you’d think I would want to hurt Darius Woods, but you’re wrong. I have never touched this gun. I went to check on my dad on Sunday night. It was Mother’s Day. I was worried about him. When I got there, he was unconscious, and I got him to the hospital. That’s it.”
“I’m sure your dad would say the same.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“We both know your dad would do anything for his kids.”
“That’s true of all parents, don’t you think?” Ginny had done vile things, but her children had always been at the root of every rationale.
“Maybe. Anyway, he might be one of my favorite people, but I know that in John Anderson’s world, his allegiance is to his own moral code regardless of what we might read in our law books. It’s a debate we’ve had many times.” The sheriff then put his hand on the box. “Thanks for this.”
She stepped back. “Sheriff, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a thousand things I have to do this morning.” The sheriff took her cue and stood as well.
“Please, take Simon’s gun. And here . . .” She dumped her coffee in the sink, dropped the mug in a Ziploc, and handed it over. “For prints. Do whatever you need to do, but you’ve got it wrong if you think I shot anyone.”
The sheriff thanked her and left. As soon as his car was out of the driveway, she got the Chardonnay out of the fridge.
Her hand was still shaking as she lifted the glass to her lips.
Brooklyn woke early to the chirping birds in the sugar map
le, a sound so unlike the beeping trash truck that usually woke her in New York. She looked up at the poster of the Brooklyn Bridge and the New York skyline hanging above her bed—the wildest, busiest, loudest, oddest, and most exciting place she’d ever been—it felt so far away.
She cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed the first floor, determined to get this house ready for her dad’s return, as if wishful thinking was all that was needed.
After a quick shower, she went to the hospital and texted Ginny, hoping to meet and finally get some answers. She’d tossed and turned all night, wondering what had happened around the year Ginny graduated high school that had derailed her life. Something had happened, she was sure. It was bad enough that Dad’s comments suggested a secret between them, but Ginny’s explanation of Sunday night wasn’t adding up. Brooklyn had even shot off a blunt text before the sun rose asking what happened to their dad’s gun. Ginny still hadn’t answered.
When she arrived at her dad’s room at the hospital, he was sitting taller and appeared better. He asked about New York and talked about getting out. He seemed okay and left moments later for physical therapy. Brooklyn stayed behind in his room imagining outlandish scenarios to explain Ginny’s change from good girl to troubled mess, wondering if Dad would finally provide some answers now that he seemed more clearheaded. She then sought out the appropriate social worker to determine her dad’s next steps. The woman was available to meet within the hour, and Brooklyn texted Ginny again—they should be handling this together—but she got no response.