“Is that true?”
“Once you admit that Erica can no longer be alive—is no longer alive—then you can begin grieving her properly. This”—she gestured toward Brynna, almost shuddering with her distaste of her rumpled hair, oversized sweatshirt, and filthy jeans—“this isn’t healthy. This isn’t what Erica would want for you.”
Part of her wanted to jump to her feet and scream at Dr. Rother, to scream that she had no idea what Erica would want. But part of her started to break. Part of her was desperate and exhausted and wanted peace.
“Go ahead and say it, Brynna. Say that Erica is dead. You need to begin to accept that.”
Erica is dead. The words felt sour on Brynna’s tongue. “Erica…” she started.
Dr. Rother’s pale blue eyes were on her, an unwavering, expectant stare.
“Erica…” Brynna tried again. “Erica…is…dead.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Wha—” Brynna sputtered, crashing back to the present.
“You said she was dead and then you started to hang with those—those losers—and we had to deal with everyone talking like we were criminals. Do you know what that’s like, Bryn? Do you?” Ella’s venom poured through the phone, and Brynna’s heartbeat sped up. “I hope you’re super happy throwing us under the bus so you could start a new life as a goodie-goodie in, where was it? Crescent City?”
“I’m sorry, Ella. I—I—was going through my own thing. I should have—”
Brynna was cut off by Ella’s slicing breath. “What do you want anyway, Bryn?”
She paused for a beat, everything inside of her telling her to hang up, to stop feeling. She steadied herself. “I got this tweet. It came from Erica’s Twitter account. Do you know anything about that?”
“No. I mean, probably someone just took over the account or the handle or something. Her account was probably deactivated last year.”
Ella’s lack of concern didn’t lessen Brynna’s. “You don’t think maybe—maybe that Jay or Michael were playing a joke or something?”
There was a long pause on Ella’s end of the phone. Every millisecond it went on ratcheted up Brynna’s tension.
“Jay doesn’t go to Lincoln anymore. And, well, you know all about Michael.”
Brynna sat on the edge of her bed. “What do I know about Michael?”
“Did you call just to lie to me and play the super innocent chick? You have a lot of fucking nerve, Brynna.”
“Please—tell me. What happened to Michael?”
There was a long pause, and Brynna dug her teeth into her lower lip, willing Ella to respond and praying that Michael was safe.
“Michael. The anonymous phone call to his parents? I bet you thought that was pretty damn funny. They sent him to North, you know. That wilderness camp? It’s supposed to be for super messed-up kids—real druggies and, like, psychopaths. But now, thanks to you and your middle-of-the-night tips to his parents, he’s stuck there. For six months. I really didn’t think you had it in you, Brynna.”
“I don’t! I didn’t!”
“Who else then?” Ella snapped. “Someone else with your caller ID?”
Brynna gaped. “My caller ID? It wasn’t me. It didn’t come from me. I didn’t even have my phone the whole time I was at Woodbriar.”
“Sure. Another girl must have taken your phone to make the call. That makes sense.”
Terror and confusion pricked at Brynna’s skin. “I don’t know—I don’t understand. But I know I didn’t make any anonymous call. Why—who—what happened? What did they say?”
Ella sucked in a razor-sharp breath. “Are you one of those—what do they call them? sadists?—who like to re-witness their crimes? Okay, sure, I’ll play. The Peytons get an anonymous call in the middle of the night saying that Michael has been doing drugs—like, hardcore drugs.”
Brynna closed her eyes, a lump growing in her throat.
She got high. She did the hardcore drugs. Michael just wanted to be with her—and he wanted to stop her.
“You—I mean, Ms. Anonymous—even told them where Michael supposedly hid his stash. Of course, they looked and voila, Oxy. Speed. Even some coke, I think, not that we would really know what that even looked like because none of us really did hardcore drugs. None of us except you, I mean. Nice work on getting the police involved too; that was really awesome of you. Was that all part of your twelve-step program, Bryn? Making amends?”
Brynna wanted to fire back that Michael had done drugs—hard stuff, like she did. Oxy, speed, ecstasy, coke—she knew because she did it with him. The weeks after Erica died. She made him do it.
She was drunk and high, and the sick was crawling up the back of her throat, but the rest of her felt fine. Not fine—nothing. Her body was there—probably—but she was a tired, slightly smiley mess, curled up on her bed.