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“I guess I could do pink too.”
“No.” Penny sets the boxes down on the desk in front of me before she starts opening one. “I mean, we could be pink twins if you want to, but I was thinking we make our own dye. Instead of adding the pink dye, we add blue.”
“You mean that block of dye? Is that possible?”
“Honestly, I have no idea, but the shampoo didn’t really change the color, so I’m figuring we can mix something up and hope for the best. We could just add it to the shampoo, but I think we’d have better results if we mix it with the developer.” She picks up one of the bottles on the desk.
I shrug. “You’re the expert.”
“Me?” Penny shakes her head.
“You didn’t do your own hair?”
Penny gives me an awkward smile. “No,” she admits. “My salon did it. They had to bleach the ends of my hair first. I have the dye so that I can add it to my shampoo to keep the pink vibrant.”
I’m sure that if I filmed this and put it on the internet, some hair colorist with a YouTube channel would be cringing in a reaction video, but at this point, my hair already looks like a mess. There’s probably a fifty-fifty chance of us getting a consistent color versus all of my hair falling out.
The moment I nod, Penny starts squeezing all the developer into the bowl. After discarding the empty bottles, she pulls on a pair of the cheap plastic gloves that come in the box and then gets the dye block from the bathroom.
Using her hands, she mushes it up before adding it to the developer and mixing it in. The blue in the bowl is so dark, it looks the same color as a pair of new dark jeans. Finally, she picks up the brush and stares down at me. “Are you sure?”
“Just do it.”
Penny continues in silence, working on one section of my hair at a time. When she was mixing the concoction together, I was certain there was far too much in the bowl, but by the time she finishes, it’s practically empty. And after smoothing my hair, she twists it up into a knot and clips it in place.
Carefully, she peels her gloves off, drops them in the empty bowl, and then she turns to the bed to pick something up. When I was in the shower, she must have returned to her room to pick up the nail polish remover, because she hands me a few soaked cotton pads. “I’m not sure this will work, but let’s try.”
“Why did you come?” I’m busy attacking my collar bone, and she’s rubbing a spot just below the back of my neck.
“You ran off at dinner.”
Dinner.
Syn’s speech.
That was probably eight hours ago, but somehow, it feels like days have passed, even though the memory is burned fresh in my mind.
“The overwhelming show of love and support was simply too much,” I say, dryly.
The rubbing on my back stops. “Not gonna lie, I was surprised. And a little upset, especially considering the other week, we were talking about JP.” Penny walks around so she’s in a position that I can look at her instead of her reflection in the mirror.
“What he said is true.” I don’t look away.
Neither does Penny. “Last I checked, you and your brother were two separate people, and unless you were here, you didn’t have anything to do with it. And I googled the story—unless you’ve perfected time travel or something, you weren’t there.” She folds her arms. “I mean, I get why Syn is pissed, and if I was in his shoes, I would be too.”
Honestly, I would be too.
“But I’m not him. And I was upset because you hadn’t told me.But, objectively, would I have told you if I were you?” She shrugs. “While I’d like to think we’re friends, even I would probably have waited.”
“We’re friends?”
Penny rolls her eyes. “Girl, it’s nearly three in the morning, and I’m still here trying to make you look like less of a Barbie with frostbite. What do you think?”
There’s a lump in my throat, and I try to swallow it away. I’m that exhausted even though I know she wouldn’t be here, helping, otherwise, I just can’t process it now. All this time, I’ve been preparing for not having a friend,especiallyafter everything came out, that had become my default setting.
“But I have to ask, whyareyou here?”
“I know he confessed, and I know it looks cut and dry that he’s guilty, but I also know my brother. He’s smart and driven, but he’s not a murderer. Theonlyway I’d believe that guilty confession is if it accompanied some story of self-defense.” I turn in my chair so I’m facing her properly. “I don’t know if it’s because he pleaded guilty from the beginning or because something was done to keep the case under wraps, but I have spent hours—months—trying to find details about what really happened that night. I don’t know what, where, how, or why, but I’m certain my brother is innocent.”
