Finding Forever (39 page)

With grace. With glory. With God's light.

Brooklyn scurried out of the church right after the end of Father McGavin's sermon. She sat cross-legged on the church's front lawn and opened the photo on her phone of the SUV in Taylor's driveway the night of her disappearance. She enlarged the image to make out the letters and numbers. But as it grew larger, the characters grew blurry, forcing her to lean in for focus.

“It's a pleasure to see you, Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn pulled the phone away and glanced up to see Father McGavin smiling from above.

“How's your mother?” he asked.

“Oh, she's doing well, Father.” Brooklyn stood and stuffed her phone into her pocket. “She's working a lot, has a case going to trial. But she's good. I'm sure she'll be here tomorrow. Thank you for asking, Father.”

Father McGavin smiled. “May God bless you, Brooklyn.”

“Thank you, Father.” Brooklyn bowed her head. “Peace be with you.”

“And also with you.”

Brooklyn said goodbye and strode onto the sidewalk. When she turned the corner onto Prospect Street, she emailed the image of the car to herself. And then she ran home.

Once inside, she blew past her mom in the living room and straight into her bedroom, where she put to use that Photoshop elective she took last semester. Brooklyn converted the 350-kilobyte picture into a high-resolution file. Then opening up the new file, she enlarged the super-pixelated pic to make out the plate number: 2101ZZ.

She texted Holden.

                      
can you run a license plate # for me?

no

                      
????

it's illegal

                      
????

in CA only licensed PI's or cops have access. Sorry boo

                      
blah. Ok. tx

Her mom appeared at the bedroom door. “Whatcha doin', Sherlock Holmes?”

“Research,” Brooklyn said casually.

“Researching sprinting? Because you ran in here like an Olympian.”

“Oh yeah.” Brooklyn laughed. “I'm just a little obsessed with a story, that's all.”

“Can you share a little about it? I respect you need some privacy, but I feel like I have no idea what you've been up to lately. I love that you're loving the journalism and that you're so good at it. It's a great hobby, Brookie. But, look, it's sad to me that I have to check
Deadline Diaries
to find out what you've been up to.”

Brooklyn closed her laptop and got up and hugged her. “It's okay, Mom. But you remember what the police told us when they were still searching for Dad? They said they could only share information on a ‘need to know' basis because they didn't want any facts to leak out that could possibly impede their investigation. It's sort of the same with investigative journalism. I'm sure you understand.”

“Maybe I can help. I'm pretty good at getting to the bottom of things.”

“No, it's okay. Really.”

“You sure?”

“Seriously, Mom. I appreciate it. But Holden has been really helpful. I'm good.”

“I respect your need to maintain confidentiality about your stories. But as long as you are living in this house, I will not accept that when it comes to your personal life. So tell me about Tamara. Has she been helping you, too?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just answered my question with a question. Has Tamara been helping you? Yes or no?”

“Yes. She helped me.”

“So that's why Mrs. Bailey saw her pick you up on Wednesday night when I was at work?”

“Yes.”

“And so tell me: Where did you go with my least favorite high school dropout?”

“To see a video.”

“Where?”

“L.A.”

Her mother's eyes bugged. “Los Angeles?”

“Yes.”

Her mom parked her hands on her hips. “Wow.” She shook her head with disgust. “This is the daughter I raised? Someone who hides things from me, who makes irresponsible choices like driving to L.A. with a girl you know I don't approve of? I don't know if I am more angry with you for violating my trust, or with myself for letting you become the kind of person who would do something so irresponsible.”

Brooklyn's mom paced the bedroom. “Did Tamara take you partying or something while you were down there? I hear
that's her M.O., that little troublemaker.”

“No. She was actually doing me a favor. I'm the one who asked her to take me. I had a source who had a video to show me.”

“And your source couldn't just email it to you?”

“No. It's complicated to explain, but—”

“Don't.” Her mom put her hands in the “stop” position. “Don't talk.”

Brooklyn nervously twisted her hair into pigtails. “You should be happy that I am working, doing something productive. You were the one who told me I need to get out of the house more.”

“I would be supportive if I knew what the heck you were doing. But lately I have no idea what you are up to. You've become so closed off. I don't even know where you were today.”

“Church! I was praying! So is that a crime, too?”

Her mom froze.

“I was praying to Dad for help. Because at least he always listened.”

“I listen.”

“But you don't hear me.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you don't hear me when I tell you that I have no friends at school anymore and it makes me sad. You don't hear me when I tell you that Tamara isn't the bad person other people make her out to be. You don't listen when I tell you that Holden and Tamara are the only people in this world who truly understand me, who support me, who believe in what I am doing unconditionally.”

“I don't think that's true, Brookie.”

“See? There you go again! Look, everyone thinks I'm that sad little girl who lost her dad, who's lost in her sad little blog. They pity me. They think I am some sort of freak. But you are
so obsessed with trying to convince me this isn't true that you aren't hearing the truth.”

“You're an outlier, Brooklyn,” her mom said. “It can be lonely when you're more advanced than everyone your age.”

“Mom, I know. I've heard this speech a million times. Did it ever occur to you that maybe the reason why Tamara and Holden are the only two real friends I have is because they are also outcasts? Tamara's one of like five black kids in our school, and the only one who speaks her mind. Holden has been bullied since kindergarten. Call us outliers if you want. But it doesn't make it any easier on us.”

“You're just advanced, Brooklyn.”

“But how am I supposed to keep advancing if you just want to keep holding me back? You realize that in less than two years I'll be on my way to college? At some point you have to let me take risks. It's a lot of pressure on me to always be safe because I know that if anything ever happened to me you would just die and wouldn't be—”

Brooklyn paused, letting her tears curl around her chin and down her neck.

“I'm sorry.” Brooklyn crashed backward onto her bed. “I'm a mess.”

“I'm glad you're sorry.” Her mother sniffled, wiping her own cheeks. “But I really think you need to take a break from that girl Tamara. She's just a bad influence.”

“You're wrong about her. It was my idea—not hers. It's not her fault.”

“You can work on your blog all you want. But you can't ride in a car with just anyone. That's too dangerous. You have to at least clear it with me first.”

“Until when?”

“Until I say so.”

Brooklyn shot up off the bed. “Is that you talking? Or the
bottles in the garbage?”

Her mom glared back at Brooklyn. “Nice try. You're deflecting. But we're talking about you, not me.”

Brooklyn picked up a pillow and threw it across the room. She stomped past her mom. But as she stepped through the doorway, she stopped. Then she turned around, picked up the pillow, and arranged it perfectly back in its place on the bed. She marched out of the room and left her mom alone.