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CHAPTER 1
MY BROTHER, TYLER, DIED THREE TIMES: FIRST IN AN
abandoned building in Washington, DC; then in the back hall of a funeral
home in McLean, Virginia; and finally on the stage of Ford's Theatre, just
a few feet from where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. I couldn't blame
myself for the first two, but the third one? That was entirely my fault.
On the day of my brother's funeral, I sat outside the
viewing room in a pink upholstered chair, hoping the cops would show up.
Not the young ones, those freshly shaven go-getters who respected my
parents' wishes and told me nothing. I wanted an old-timer, a chatty
veteran on the brink of retirement, who might let a few things slip.
The instant I spotted their dark cookie-cutter suits, I
was on my feet. The tall one, I could have sliced a finger on the clean
line of his jaw. But the other one—he had grizzle. I needed to move fast. I
ducked past two girls tangled in a hug by a photo of Tyler in his varsity
baseball uniform. I narrowly avoided a collision with his ex-girlfriend,
Emma. But before I could reach the cops, a warm hand on my shoulder stopped
me, and Squarejaw and Grizzle pushed open the door of the viewing room. The
people inside glanced toward me, their faces stiff and lacquered over with
grief. I jerked back and closed my eyes. I couldn't go in there. I
wouldn't.
“You okay, Brown?” asked the boy who'd stopped me.
“Don't call me Brown,” I said, glaring up at him. He
seemed familiar, although he didn't look like anyone else in the room. He
was all rich colors and textures—an oil painting in a room full of charcoal
sketches. His skin gleamed a dark Vandyke brown, his eyes umber. His
chunky, oversized glasses were indigo blue, and his bow tie blazed scarlet.
He wore his hair natural, not that he needed the few extra inches of
height.
“Not Brown,” he said. “Megan. That's right. Sorry.”
He knew my nickname and my real name, but I
didn't recognize him at all? “Do I know you?”
“You don't remember me?” He looked down at his feet
with a slight smile. “Of course you don't.”
“Do you go to Westside?”
“I go to school in DC.” He shifted the messenger bag
slung across his chest and stuck out a hand. “Nathan. Nathan Lee.” I stared
at the pattern of lines on his palm. By the time it occurred to me to shake
it, he'd dropped it back by his side. “I'm a friend of Tyler's. I heard
what happened, and…” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I don't know.
I guess I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
All right? Tears burned behind my eyes, and anger
turned my stomach. Keep
quiet, I thought. He's
trying to be nice, I thought.
I
want to knock the nice right off his face, I thought.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked, nicer than
ever, and I knew I wasn't going to keep quiet. I could hear Tyler's voice
in my head: Watch it,
Brown. When you're upset, you forget how to talk like a normal person.
But I didn't listen.
“I need to know how Tyler died,” I said. “Because no
one will tell me.”
Nathan's face froze. “Whoa. That's… I don't know.”
“Also a lamb kebab.”
He shook his head, confused.
“A lamb kebab,” I repeated. “From Moby Dick's. With a
side of cucumber sauce? That would be great.”
“Are you serious?”
My anger drained away in an instant, and I covered my
face with both hands. Even dead, Tyler was always right. “Please, just go.”
And after a long moment, he did.
I felt heavy and sick, like I'd swallowed a stone. And
I couldn't escape. I was trapped in this room full of familiar strangers,
all moving in slow motion through an invisible sea of sorrow. I longed for
the feel of scissors in my hand, for the smell of paints and pencils and
glue. I'd tear this whole scene apart and remake it on paper: a collage of
flowers, perhaps, each one elegant and waxy as death. And there I'd be,
tucked away in one corner, my face a blur, my mouth open in a silent
scream, a figure of horror like something out of a Francis Bacon painting.
A funeral-home official in gray pinstripes descended on
me. “Miss Brown? Megan Brown?”
I nodded.
“The service will be starting in a few minutes.” He
looked down his nose at my baggy sweater and black knit skirt. “Now might
be a good time to change your clothes. You can use the family services
room.”
“Family services room” turned out to be a euphemism for
“large closet with mirror and tissues.” A framed photo of Tyler sat on a
shelf, even here, his red hair a blaze of color in the fluorescent light.
He grinned up at me from the picture, his letter jacket slung over one
shoulder, looking more like an American Eagle model than like the colossal
goofball who thought it was funny to wear my bras to the breakfast table.
On a hook behind the door, the navy blazer and skirt my
mother had chosen for me hung waiting, still sealed in their dry-cleaning
bags. A small table by the mirror held the other items she'd left me.
Apparently, she expected me to wear panty hose. And makeup.
We couldn't just mourn, I guess. We had to look the
part.
I yanked on the outfit and stepped into toe-pinching
pumps I hadn't worn in at least a year. As I picked up Mom's makeup bag, I
heard my father's voice outside in the hall. Raised. Angry.
“He's my son, and I'll decide when it's time for us to
talk about it!”
I cracked open the door. My father towered over a
female detective who couldn't have been more than five feet tall. I'd seen
her once before: at our house, the night Tyler died. Johnson—that was her
name. Her deep brown skin was unwrinkled, and her tight curls showed no
sign of gray, but given her badass expression, no one would dare mistake
her for a rookie.
Adrenaline raced through me, and I pressed my face to
the doorjamb, determined to catch every single word.
“I'm only here to pay my respects, sir,” she said. “We
can talk about the autopsy results another time.”
An icy shock raced through me. She had the autopsy
results? I held my breath, hoping she would say more.
I could see Dad's hands shaking. He balled them into
fists, and his face hardened. “I can't believe you would even bring up the
investigation today. And here, of all places. Don't you follow any kind of
protocol?”
Detective Johnson nodded grimly, as though having a
distinguished history professor get up in her face was a routine part of
her job, though not one she liked very much. “You're absolutely right. I
should go.”
As she turned to leave, I saw my best chance of finding
out what had happened to Tyler walking out with her.
“No!” I shoved open the door and stepped into the hall.
They both turned toward me, and I froze in place, my confidence deserting
me in an instant.
My father raised a hand. “Megan, I want you to stay out
of this.”
I forced my chin up, fighting the hated tears. “If the
autopsy results are back, I have every right to know what's in them.” Dad
looked down at his feet, but Badass fixed me with a laser glare, sizing me
up. “Please, Dad,” I choked out. “I need to know.”
But Dad said nothing. He didn't even glance at me.
After a short pause, Johnson spoke. “As I told your
father, the autopsy was inconclusive. We're still waiting on toxicology
results.”
“Toxicology?” I asked. “Isn't that, like, drugs?”
She nodded.
“But that doesn't…” I shook my head. “I thought maybe
he fell.
He was in a condemned building, right? And he was on
crutches.
He didn't fall?”
“He did have a head wound, but it appears that was not
the cause of death,” Johnson said. “And the initial blood screen came back
positive for opiates.”
Dad lifted his head. “Opiates? You mean like morphine?”
“In this case, I mean heroin.”
I stopped breathing for a moment, then started up again
with a gasp. Tyler? Taking heroin? That was impossible. Ridiculous, even.
But Badass couldn't have been more serious.
Dad looked every bit as gut-punched as I felt. “I don't
understand. He was graduating in three months. He had a full ride at UVa,
playing baseball. He wouldn't jeopardize that by doing drugs.”
Johnson's voice was matter-of-fact. “Officers canvasing
the area found several witnesses who saw a boy matching Tyler's description
in the parking lot of a McDonald's on New York Avenue, a known open-air
market for heroin and methadone in that neighborhood.”
She said it so easily, like it would be just as easy to
believe. It wasn't. Anger and confusion gripped my throat, and I fought to
get the words out. “But… Tyler… he didn't drink.”
“Miss Brown, I'm not talking about alcohol.”
“No, I mean…” My voice choked off, and I clenched my
skirt in frustration.
“He didn't even
drink, is what she means.” I turned and saw Nathan Lee hovering
at the end of the hall, looking vaguely embarrassed. “I'm sorry, I was
just…” He gestured to the men's room door behind him. “I should leave.” He
took a few steps, then turned back. “But Megan's right. Red was totally
clean. Heroin?” He shook his head. “Doesn't make any sense.”
Ten minutes ago, I'd never seen this Nathan guy before,
but now he felt like a lifeline.
And he wasn't finished. “Besides, why would he have
gone to some McDonald's in DC to buy drugs? I guarantee you, there are
plenty of drugs right here in Virginia.” He caught the look in Johnson's
eye and finished, “Ma'am.”
“This is enough,” my father said. “I've told you, my
wife and I don't want Megan pulled into the investigation.” He looked over
at Nathan. “And you… I'm sorry, I have no idea who you are.”
“He's with me,” I said. Nathan glanced over at me in
surprise, and a corner of his mouth turned up.
“We do have to talk to Megan, I'm afraid. And all of
Tyler's friends.” The detective gave Nathan a significant look. “But
remember, this is only preliminary. We still have to wait for the full
toxicology report.”
“How long?” my father asked.
“Four weeks. Minimum.” She must have seen the look of
disbelief cross my face. “I'm sorry, but that's how long it takes.”
“And if it was an overdose?” Dad asked.
“Well, then we'll do our best to determine if it was
accidental or intentional.”
Suicide. She was talking about suicide. Even
unspoken, the word landed like a blow. I shook my head, as though I could
knock it loose, but it burrowed deep and stung hard. Suicide. I glanced over
at Dad. He looked like a papier-mâché version of himself, hollowed out and
thin.
“Heroin?” he breathed at last. “Are you sure? There
hasn't been some kind of mistake?”
“No mistake.” Detective Johnson's face softened, and
her voice took on a gentler tone. “I'm sorry. I know this is hard. But you
can't blame yourself for not knowing. Addicts hide things. Especially from
the people who love them best.”
I swayed on my feet, suddenly dizzy. I thought Tyler's
death had been it—the
kind of once-in-a-lifetime event that broke everything into “before” and
“after”—but now here I stood, teetering on the edge of yet another cliff. I
turned to my father, searching his face, hoping he'd protect me, somehow,
from whatever came next.
But Dad just… crumpled. He let out a breath that seemed
to make him shorter, and his chin dropped. “He had been withdrawn
for the past few weeks.”
I let out a low cry.
“He was moody. Distracted,” Dad continued. “Not acting
like himself. That whole story about how he broke his leg? Climbing the
backstop on the baseball field?” He shook his head. Tears were running down
his cheeks now, and he didn't bother to wipe them away. They panicked me.
“I knew it sounded off, but I didn't even bother to—” His voice broke, and
he fell silent, jaw clenching.
And that was the moment. The moment Tyler died all over
again. It was bad enough that I'd never see him again, but now… he wouldn't
even be the person I remembered. My brother wasn't just going to die; I was
going to lose everything I had left of him.
“Dad—” I began.
“It doesn't change anything. We won't love him any
less. Just because…” He trailed off, rubbing his face with his hands. “I
have to find your mother.” He turned to Johnson. “I think you should go.
I'll see you out.” The two of them walked away, leaving Nathan and me
alone.
I pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes, as though
I could keep the hot, bitter tears from spilling out. It didn't work. I
gave in, slumped back against the wall, and cried.
Nathan came closer and leaned against the wall beside
me. He didn't speak.
When I finally opened my eyes, I saw that his were
closed. He had taken off his glasses, and I realized I'd been wrong about
the color of his bow tie—it wasn't scarlet. It was carmine, a red with less
green, more blue. And in the fluorescent hallway light, his skinny black
suit had a hint of sheen to it. Very retro, like something that had come
through a time machine.
He opened his eyes and caught me looking at him, his
face a mirror of my own sadness and confusion. I pushed off the wall and
stepped away.
“You know, you're not at all how Tyler described you,”
he said.
I turned toward him. “How did he describe me?”
“Shy. Quiet. Standoffish.”
“I'm quiet.”
His lips quirked in a half smile.
“Ordinarily,” I said.
His smile grew, transforming his face, giving rise to
new shapes and shadows. “No, I don't think so. You may be hard to get
going. But when you go, you go.”
I wasn't sure what to say. So I said nothing.
“And I'm sorry I crashed that major family moment,” he
said. “I didn't mean to make things awkward or—”
“No, I'm glad you were there.” I rubbed my arms against
a sudden chill, and I studied the lines and angles of Nathan's face. After
the way he'd stood up for Tyler—and for me—he seemed less like a stranger
and more like a friend I'd just met. “I thought I wanted answers, you know?
About what happened to him. But now…” Tears clogged my throat. “It's like
they're trying to take him away from me.”
Nathan was silent for a few seconds. Then he held out
his hand. “Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“I'm going to send you something. A video. Did Red show
you the videos?”
“What videos?”
“That's what I thought.”
I gave him my phone, and he dialed. A muffled ringing
came from his bag. “Now I've got your number. And you've got mine.” He
tapped away on my phone for another few seconds, then held it up to snap
his own picture. “I'll save that with my number. In case you forget who I
am.”
I snorted, wiping at my face. “Unlikely.”
He handed it back to me. “I'll send you that video.
Just watch it, okay?” He reached out a tentative hand and rested it on my
shoulder. “And listen, no matter what happened to Tyler, or how he died, no
one can take him away from you. Okay?”
I was suddenly overwhelmed again, drowning in missing
Tyler, overcome by the words pounding in my head. Heroin. Overdose. Suicide.
Nathan stepped back. “I actually brought you something
else, if you want it. I meant to give it to you before, but…” He reached
into his bag and pulled out a tattered paperback with a sepia-toned
photograph on the cover. “Tyler was carrying that around for months. Left
it at my place. I figured you might want it. Sentimental value and all.”
I nodded, my eyes blurring with tears again.
“Okay. I guess I should go.” He took a few steps, but
then he stopped. “You have my number, if there's anything you need.” He
made a kind of bowing gesture and disappeared down the hall.
I ducked into the family services room, shut the door
behind me, and dropped the book Nathan had given me into my backpack. I
still had to force myself through the funeral. My arm felt heavy as I
reached for Mom's makeup bag, and I thought, My entire body is filling up with stones. Instead
of going to the mirror, I picked up Tyler's picture.
I remembered standing at the edge of a swimming pool at
maybe five years old, my bare toes curled around the rounded lip, watching
him flash through the water like a seal. He made it look effortless, like
something people just did. I wanted to do that, look like that, be
like him. But when I flung myself into the pool, I flailed and gasped and
sank, until he swam over and pulled my head above water.
He'd been doing the same thing ever since. My brother
sailed through life like it was one long sock slide. No matter how hard I
tried, all I seemed to do was skid. So Tyler did his best to pull me with
him. But he couldn't do anything about what I called the Look: that
expression of surprise and disappointment I always got when I told people I
was Tyler Brown's little sister.
“Really?” they'd say, staring at my mud-colored hair
and my paint-stained fingers. The Look was usually followed by the Pause,
as they waited for me to act like him, to do something outrageous or
entertaining. I excelled at defying that expectation. People called him Red
Brown, so gradually I became known as Brown Brown. It was more than a
nickname; it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. They called me Brown, so I
gave them Brown. Life was easier that way. Part of me might have hated
Tyler for it. But mostly, I still just wanted to be like him.
My phone beeped. I fished it out of my bag to find two
new messages. One was from Elena. It read: Can't believe I'm so far away. Thinking of you. Good
vibes from Texas.
I thought about all the things I wanted to tell her,
all the things I couldn't fit into a text. I wrote, If you're not over here in fifteen
minutes, you can find a new best friend.
Seconds later, her response: You've been saying that since the
fifth grade. I breathed a little easier. Obscure Ferris Bueller's Day Off reference
identified and answered. Infinitely more comforting than a funeral hall
full of sympathetic looks.
The other text was from Nathan. No message, just a link
to a YouTube video. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the phone. Then I
took a breath and clicked the link.
The video that came up was titled “You Are My
Sunshine.” Posted by a user called TwoRedCents, it had racked up 305
views—hardly viral, but not a secret, either. The video started, and I
gasped when I saw myself, sitting next to Tyler on his bed. His guitar
rested on my lap, and he positioned my fingers on the strings.
“Okay, so this is A,” he said. Then he moved my
fingers. “Here's D.” He moved my fingers again. “E. And back to A. Now you
start singing, and I'll tell you when to switch.”
I gripped the phone a little tighter. This had been
shot almost two years ago, right after all the crap Elena went through in
eighth grade. The crap that made moving away seem like the best thing that
could possibly happen to her. The morning after she'd left, Tyler had dragged
me out of my room and declared I needed to learn to play guitar. That's how
we got along best: me learning and him teaching.
In the video—ugh, I still had my awful eighth-grade
bangs—I strummed the guitar a few times, then started singing softly, staring
at my fingers. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me—”
“Now D,” Tyler said.
I grimaced as I tried to twist my fingers into the new
position. Tyler helped me, laughing. “When it starts to sound like actual
music,” he said, “you'll know you're getting somewhere.”
I began to sing again. The video cut to another lesson,
but the same point in the song. I was incrementally better. As the song
continued, the video progressed in a kind of time lapse of me mastering
some basic chords. Now and then, the song was interrupted by short scenes
of me and Tyler doing other things: thumb wrestling, eating potato chips,
looking at our phones. By the end of the song, I wasn't half bad. We sang
the final words together: “Please don't take my sunshine away.”
“Awesome,” Tyler said, and the video ended.
My chest ached so hard that I rubbed it with one hand.
That was Tyler as I'd always known him. Whatever the police or the medical
examiner said, he wasn't a figment of my imagination. But how did the boy
in this video turn into the boy in Detective Johnson's police report? And
how had I not even noticed? Dad and Nathan seemed as shocked as I was. But
maybe Mom knew something. And maybe she could help me figure out how the
hell I was supposed to deal with it.
As I was forwarding the video to Elena, I heard three
quick knocks at the door. “Miss Brown?” The funeral-home gestapo had found
me. “The service is beginning.”
“I'll be right there.”
I looked around the room. Mom would notice if I didn't
put on lipstick, at the very least. I dug through her makeup bag and came
up with a tube of bright red. Carmine—a perfect match for the color of
Nathan's bow tie. I opened the tube and considered wearing it like an
invitation, a flipped middle finger, a badge of courage. But when the
knocks at the door sounded again, I shoved it back in the bag and looked
for something a little more brown.
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