by E. C. Diskin
He stopped at the station to pick up his box of things before heading to Donny’s swearing in. There was a note on the desk. Call Frank. ASAP.
Frank had run the test on Wilson’s gun. He dropped into the chair and picked up the phone. For the first time in his career, he was nervous about where an investigation was going. Could he really stand by and allow his own son to be prosecuted for attempted murder? Could he even stop it? If Eddie had taken a shot at Woods, it wasn’t gonna be a short detox in that jail. It would be years in prison. Given the history between them—if Eddie had really used the words Woods wrote in his screenplay, he could just imagine the prosecution’s narrative, painting Eddie as the drug-addicted racist.
It wasn’t right. Eddie made jokes and called names, but he wasn’t a racist. He was just so angry. He’d gotten so angry after his mom died.
Please, please, please, he silently begged. Don’t be true. His boy’s demon wasn’t hatred. It was those frickin’ drugs. They brought out such ugliness. He didn’t know who Eddie had become.
Phone to his ear, he continued to silently pray until Frank picked up. “Hey, Frank, Sheriff Wilson here. Thanks so much for the quick turnaround.”
“Well, I thought you’d want to know right away,” Frank said. “Those bullets that hit Woods definitely did not come from the gun we tested.”
“Did not. Did not?” He took a deep breath and pushed it out. “Oh, that’s fantastic. Thanks, Frank. I owe you a million.”
Wilson disconnected and leaned back in his chair. He would not watch his son get put away for attempted murder. No parent needed to live through watching their child go to jail. The thought brought him back to John’s implicit request and the promise Wilson had made when he’d visited him yesterday morning. Donny didn’t have much to go on yet, and there was still a chance the shooter was Woods’s LA stalker, but John’s comment haunted him. It wasn’t exactly what he said; it was how he said it. Like John knew Ginny was involved somehow. “Don’t let that boy destroy my family,” he’d said. It was hard to imagine, after everything Wilson had read, that Ginny would do something like that, but then again, she was still connected to that pastor. She’d lied about knowing Darius. Wilson didn’t know what to believe.
He pulled out the Woods case file and reviewed the interview notes from Woods’s neighbor—the one who’d seen a blonde woman and had rattled off several digits from the car’s license plate. He wrote down her name and address. He could at least pay her a visit, see if her ID could even hold up in a courtroom. It had been raining and dark. Perhaps she wore glasses, or maybe she’d been drinking that night or was overtired. It wasn’t much, but he wanted to do something for his friend.
He went to Centennial Park after leaving the station, where the department had set up for Donny’s official swearing-in ceremony. Many in the town had arrived for the event, and Wilson smiled, shook hands, and posed for photos with Donny, now in a uniform, too, standing tall and proud—the new, young, progressive face of justice in Eden. At least that’s what the press would say.
Brooklyn lay in her bedroom that night, head dangling over the foot of the bed, just like she used to do as a kid, watching the upside-down sunset out the window. Nothing was resolved; her dad was returning tomorrow, and she had no idea what would happen. She’d swung from the high of that audition and the surprise of finding a bed set up at home to seeing him confused, saying he’d never even seen Ginny and the kids today, saying Ginny hated him. And Ginny had lied. Again. She said she’d gone to the hospital when she obviously hadn’t. Was this it? Was it time for Brooklyn to finally give up on her dream and return to the town she’d run from?
With blood rushing to her head, she finally sat up, propped up on her elbows, and gazed at the poster of the New York skyline that had hung over her bed since she was a child. The sunrise view had inspired her dreams for years, with the Brooklyn Bridge—a massive architectural wonder of cables and stone—front and center, sailboats on the East River below, and a distant pink-and-orange horizon behind the skyline.
As soon as she and her friends had decided to drop out of college and stay in the city, they’d trekked south from their newly acquired East Village apartment until they reached the bridge. She’d spent her entire life looking at that poster and as a kid had even assumed that it was the only way to get to New York City, a sort of yellow brick road to Oz. It was a spectacular and enormous suspension bridge, more than a mile long. The girls had walked across the bridge to view the city from the same perspective she’d had on her bedroom wall. Those neogothic-style arches above the passageways reminded Brooklyn of something in a church. The only difference between the poster and the actual view on that day, of course, was that when she stood, looking back at Lower Manhattan, the twin towers were gone.
Brooklyn had been looking up at that poster the first time she asked her mom how she got the name Brooklyn. She was in second grade at the time, and earlier that day, a classmate had pointed out that her own middle name was Lynn. She assumed Brooklyn’s name was two names, Brook and Lynn, and had told her she needed to add another n because Lyn was not the right spelling. Brooklyn was a terrible speller, but she was sure the girl was mistaken; it was how her mom spelled it too. The teacher finally got involved and said that no, Brooklyn was one word, that it was a unique name for a person, but it was also the name of a borough in New York City, and there was even a big bridge named after that borough. The kids had all asked what a borough was, leading the discussion in a whole new direction.
As Mom had tucked her into bed that night, Brooklyn gazed up at the bridge, realizing the connection. It had never been more than a background fixture to her—something that was just part of her room.
“Was I born on a bridge?” she asked.
Her mom had laughed. “What in the world—”
Brooklyn pointed up at the poster. “The Brooklyn Bridge. I learned about it in school today. Am I named after that? Or the borrow?”
“No!” She laughed again.
“But Ginny’s named after Virginia, right? Because you were at that famous cemetery in Arlington, Virginia, when you went into labor?”
“That’s right,” her mom had said with a smile.
Brooklyn had turned the conversation back to herself, looking up at the poster again. “So that’s not why you hung this poster here?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever been to New York?”
“Lord, no. I’m not exactly a big-city girl,” she joked. “It is a beautiful view, though,” she said, gazing at the poster.
“Where did you get it?”
Her mom stared at the poster, trying to remember. “I think I saw it at the Walmart a few years ago.”
“How did you come up with my name?”
Mom smoothed a hand over Brooklyn’s hair and said, “I heard the name in a movie and I thought it sounded pretty. It’s not an exciting story, but I do love your name.”
By the time Brooklyn had turned sixteen and fallen in love with acting, she decided that Ginny’s name was inspired by the past, and her own name foretold the future.
Brooklyn checked her phone again for any new emails from the producers of the movie. She couldn’t let go of the dream. But there was no news. And tomorrow was Sunday. She probably wouldn’t hear anything before Monday.
She had to focus on Dad. And Ginny. And fixing this broken family.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DAY SEVEN
Sunday, May 19
ON SUNDAY MORNING, BROOKLYN WAS up before six. She spent a couple of hours organizing Mom’s clothes for charity and walked around the house, restless. It was too early to get Dad. And she couldn’t confront Ginny yet. It was church time.
Brooklyn got dressed and went to the family store. It would make Dad happy to know she’d opened for the postchurch crowd. She made the coffee and stood behind the counter, surrounded by all the familiar sundries of her childhood. The bells chimed as the front door opened and several little boys, a
ll wearing loose ties with their untucked shirts and sneakers with their slacks, rushed toward the candy shelves beside the register. Church was out, obviously. If her dad had to sell this place, she hoped the buyer would keep it going. It had become an institution.
She’d just rung up the last of a gang of ten kids when the door chimed and Martin Woods appeared.
“This is a surprise!” she said. “I noticed the media trucks were gone on Thursday and I figured Darius had probably been released. I didn’t know if we’d ever cross paths again.”
Martin held the door for the departing children and stepped to the counter. “Actually, he’s not out yet, but looks like I’m gonna get to bring him home later today.”
“My dad too!” she said.
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked.
“Just wanted to open for a few hours. My dad never missed a Sunday.”
He looked taken aback. “Your dad is John Anderson?”
“You know him?”
He nodded. “So John is in the hospital? He broke his hip?”
“He did.”
“I’m sorry, Brooklyn . . . I’m just so surprised by all this.”
She smiled at him. “I’m surprised too. How do you know my dad?”
“He’s a customer. I been selling him plumbing parts for a couple a years.” His gaze dropped to the counter, searching. “Huh.”
“What?”
Martin looked at Brooklyn, reconsidering her. “I thought something about you looked familiar. From the very moment we met. I guess perhaps I saw you in here before. Just never put it together.”
“Could be. I spent most of my childhood helping out here. At least until I went off to college a couple years ago.”
“Well, this is a little awkward, Brooklyn, but you mentioned that your dad might be suffering from some memory issues, so perhaps that explains what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m here today to see if I could finally get your dad to pay his bill.”
“Oh.” She flushed. “I’m sorry. Was there a problem?”
“Well, I came in last Sunday, and things between us didn’t go very well.” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I’m only now able to think about work again. I mean, I been consumed with Darius all week, of course.”
“Sure. What happened between you two?”
“I come in ’bout once a month, usually on a Sunday or Monday. John seemed to be in good spirits. We chatted as we usually did, but then his mood took a swift turn. I know all too well about personality changes with dementia. My sister,” he said, nodding the implied finish. “Anyway, he suddenly told me to get out and refused to pay his bill.”
“That’s strange.” She’d never seen her dad act unprofessionally with vendors, even the ones Brooklyn found creepy. Her heart sank. It was hard not to take it as further evidence that something was happening with his mental state. “Do you have a business card? I’ll go look up your account in back and see if I can’t fix this.”
Martin fished one out of his wallet.
“Be right back.”
She quickly found the records at her dad’s desk. Despite the mess she’d discovered on Tuesday, he’d continued to keep good records. Martin had delivered a supply thirty days earlier. Her dad still owed several hundred dollars. There were no notes about defective parts or returns. It didn’t make sense that he’d refuse to pay. She pulled out the checkbook and wrote a check to Martin for the amount owed before returning to the front of the store.
“Here you go,” she offered.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
“So, Martin, do you remember what you and my dad were talking about when his mood turned?”
“Nothing really,” Martin said. “Seemed like small talk. Of course, I mentioned that my son, the movie star, had just come home. Gotta let a parent brag a little, right?”
Brooklyn smiled. “Of course.”
“Then John was dealing with a young man who was walking the aisles, acting kind of suspicious.”
“Suspicious, how?”
“Oh, one of these guys who look a little drugged up, if you know what I mean. But John didn’t seem overly concerned. In fact, he told him to come in the back and get some danish and coffee. I believe he knew him. John turned back to me then, like he’d figured something out, and asked if Darius Woods was my boy. I guess most folks in town have heard of Darius at this point. Of course, I said yes, and John asked what brought him home. I think I mentioned that he’d planned to film a movie about Eden, that he’d written a story about his life here. I guess that’s it, really. Next thing I know, John’s telling me that I’d been overcharging. It was like he suddenly didn’t trust me because my son was a celebrity.”
It was entirely baffling. With his lack of interest in pop culture, why would her father care who Martin’s son was? “Weird. I’m sorry about that. He really hasn’t been acting like himself lately.”
Martin nodded. “I remember you telling me that at the hospital. Makes sense. Anyway, I ain’t gonna hold a grudge. Life too short for all that. Well, thanks, Brooklyn. All the best to your family,” he said, taking a few steps toward the door.
“Hey, Martin. I meant to ask you, do you know my sister?”
Martin turned and came back toward the counter. “The sister you have trouble with?”
She smiled. “Yeah. Actually, I’ve been trying to take your advice, hoping we can work out our issues. She went to high school with Darius. Turns out, she was even on the stage crew.”
“Huh. Small world. Though Darius didn’t really bring kids over to the house. What’s her name?”
“Ginny. Now it’s Ginny Smith, but she was Ginny Anderson back then.”
His eyes widened. “Well, that’s a coincidence.”
“What?”
“She came by Darius’s room at the hospital on Thursday afternoon. Said he’d asked her to come. He wasn’t doing well at the time, so I had to send her away, but . . . that’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Brooklyn said. Ginny had acted as if she barely knew Darius. But they were in touch? And he’d asked her to come see him Thursday? Ginny had disappeared for thirty minutes on Thursday before she met Brooklyn in the cafeteria. Was that so she could see Darius? And if she knew him well enough to visit, how could she not mention it when she knew Brooklyn was such a fan? Instead, she’d practically pushed Brooklyn out the hospital door Thursday, convincing her to get out of town. She was up to something. This couldn’t all be Brooklyn’s wild imagination.
“Anyway, I gotta run,” Martin said. “Going back to Burns now to get him. Hey, maybe you two can meet before he heads back to California. Being an actress and all.”
Brooklyn’s smile grew wide. “I’d love it.”
Watching Martin leave, she tried to envision the exchange between him and her dad. She couldn’t imagine why mention of Darius Woods would have set off her dad, changing his mood so suddenly.
The pieces were all there, like a puzzle on the table. Darius was shot last Sunday night. And Dad fell. Ginny was in Eden. Ginny may have been involved in a shooting back in high school. Darius knew her. He wrote a screenplay about Eden, and she tried to see him in the hospital. If Darius knew about whatever Ginny did in high school, if he wrote about it, it could ruin Ginny’s life when the movie came out. Maybe Dad would have been worried about that too? Brooklyn’s breathing nearly stopped, but she tapped her chest as that familiar flush of heat hinted at a possible panic attack. She thought about Dad’s gun safe, open and empty.
Her mind was zooming toward a dark conclusion. But it was too outlandish to be true. It couldn’t be . . . Could Ginny have taken Dad’s gun and shot Darius Woods?
Brooklyn closed up the shop as soon as the postchurch rush had ended and drove to Ginny’s house in Harrisburg. She called the hospital on the way. Nurse Wanda said the doctor wouldn’t be getting to her dad for checkout until around five o’clock. She had plenty of ti
me. She’d only been to Ginny’s a few times over the years, but it was easy to remember the route—just a long and flat, four-lane country highway between them, nothing remarkable but that nine-hundred-acre bike club.
She wasn’t sure what she’d say—but she was done with all the secrets. She had to finally understand what happened on Sunday night.
Ginny’s house was on Walnut in the oldest part of town, on one of those rare blocks still paved in brick, with stately looking homes built in the early 1900s. She spotted the idyllic white house on the knoll with that huge porch on both the main and second stories. Simon was just pulling into the driveway.
Lowering his window, he yelled a friendly greeting from the car and as soon as he parked, got out, and pulled her in for a big hug. “Good to see you, Brooklyn. How’s your dad doing?”
She’d noticed some gray coming through his dark-brown hair when she’d seen him at the funeral, but it was even more apparent now. Maybe that was life in your fifties, or maybe it was living with Ginny. “He’s got a ways to go,” Brooklyn answered, “but I think he’s going to be okay. He’s just going to need some help.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, or if you need me to find you any doctors, please, just ask. Ginny doesn’t tell me much, but I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks,” Brooklyn said. She recalled Ginny’s earlier comments—dismissing Simon’s concerns about her drinking, telling Brooklyn their marriage was a mess. Was that a lie? It was hard to know if she should trust anything Ginny said.
Brooklyn hadn’t seen the kids since they made a brief appearance at Mom’s funeral back in December, but they both got out of the car and offered barely audible hellos. No big hugs or excited reunions. They both seemed to have inherited their mom’s inability to hold eye contact, an insecurity or discomfort with all polite conversation. Brooklyn was just someone they associated with their grandparents—not a stranger, but not exactly a relative either. Mikey was getting so tall, and his hair had darkened from Ginny’s lighter color to a dirtier blond, though Lyla still shared the same white-blond hair, delicate features, and petite frame. She was beautiful. Brooklyn just hoped that she survived adolescence and the rough waters of life better than her mother had.