But something in her mind kept nagging her…
Finally, in a rare moment of bravado, she slid on her phone and dialed, vaguely surprised that her fingers still remembered Erica’s number. She counted the rings until the familiar tones started chiming: “This number has been disconnected. If you feel you have reached this message in error…”
It should have been comforting. It should have been another bit of tangible proof that Erica wasn’t alive, that she wasn’t hanging around in the dark, calling and haunting Brynna.
She paused for a beat, then dialed a second time, listening to the shrill ring without holding the phone to her cheek. When someone answered, she snatched it up.
“’Lo?”
Brynna paused for a beat too long.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
She cleared her throat and worked to keep her voice as bright and even as possible. “Hey—hi—Ella, it’s me, Brynna. From Lincoln?”
There was a long pause. “Seriously?”
Butterflies flapped knife-edged wings in Brynna’s stomach. “Yeah, sorry I haven’t really been in touch. With the move and all…”
“You haven’t been in touch with me, you mean.” Ella didn’t try to hide the bitterness in her voice, and Brynna felt trapped, wounded. She felt the need to explain—and defend.
“I’m really sorry—”
“Whatever. Why are you calling me?”
Brynna knew she should ask after Ella, inquire about her life and about school, but all she wanted were answers. “So, I got this weird tweet the other day.”
“Wait. I don’t hear from you for almost six months, and you want to talk about some weird tweet?”
“It’s just that—”
“Brynna, you walked out on us. You just up and left. Of course, that was after pretty much dumping us at school.”
Brynna bit down hard on her lower lip. “I know. I’m sorry, it’s just that—”
“Do you know what happened when you left? I mean, you just disappeared.”
“I was in rehab,” Brynna blurted, the humiliation burning all the way to her scalp. Her mind immediately reeled back to her crumpled car, the flashing red and blue lights, the police officer who helped her stumble along until he snapped the cold metal cuffs on her. She remembered the throbbing in her head, the way the whole scene swirled in front of her eyes. “I had to. I couldn’t talk to anyone after. I couldn’t see anyone.” She hoped that Ella wouldn’t ask questions, would assume that Brynna “couldn’t” see her old friends because her doctor or the parole officer told her so—not that she couldn’t face them.
Ella was silent for a beat on the other end of the phone, and Brynna counted the seconds. When Ella spoke again, her voice had a slightly softer edge to it—but just barely.
“You just abandoned us. All of a sudden, you disappeared. And after Erica”—Ella sucked in her breath—“people started to talk.”
Brynna’s hackles went up. “What do you mean, they started to talk?”
“People said you were dead, Bryn. They said that you offed yourself because you killed Erica.”
Pain sliced through Brynna’s chest. “I didn’t—”
“And then, know what? They started blaming Michael and Jay. People started to tell me that I was next. Or that I was in on it. My parents made me see a shrink, and the cops came to school asking questions.”
There was real angst in Ella’s voice, but she tried to drown it out with spitting anger.
Brynna’s lips felt numb. “But everybody knew that she—everybody knew that Erica—”
“Erica what? Drowned? Maybe. There was no body. You were the one who said she was dead. You said it. Maybe it was because you were the only one who actually knew that she was.”
Brynna’s head started to throb. She pinched her eyes shut, trying to block out the images that came seeping in, but they were there, clear as day.
“Erica is dead, Brynna, you have to know that.”
Brynna shook her head. “No one knows that. They never found a body.”
She hated the way Dr. Rother needled her with her gaze. It was like she wanted to cure her, to make her happy, by destroying her first.
“The police have declared Erica Shaw dead. Say it, Brynna. Say that Erica is dead.”
Brynna shrunk into her sweatshirt, angling her head so that her just-dyed, so-blue-it-was-black hair hung over her eyes. “I don’t think she is,” she said to the scuffed toes of her black leather boots.
Dr. Rother let out a long sigh, making it obvious that Brynna wasn’t grieving right. “Once you admit it, once you admit what happened—that Erica jumped into the water and was drowned by a riptide—then you can start letting go.”
Brynna looked up at that, the idea of being free of Erica’s deathly pull holding some appeal to her. She had spent months trying to block out Erica’s accusing eyes, the way her fingertips felt those last few seconds before she drifted away.