My world narrows as I stare at the USB. “A video?”
“Yes. Of one of your songs.” He places the USB in my palm. It feels absurdly heavy. “You don’t have to watch it now. And if you’d prefer to view it alone—”
“No. Now is good.”
He nods. “I’ll get my laptop.”
He disappears briefly, then he returns and plugs the USB in. We gather around the screen as a grainy video loads. It’s teenage me in our Sydney garage, a school guitar on my knee, singing and playing. I must be fourteen or so. Pre-Cole Clark days.
I’m not sure if watching my younger self perform is sweet or embarrassing. The melody is rough, the lyrics different, but it’s undeniably one of my songs in its earliest form.
The song stops halfway.
“That’s all I have so far,” teenage me says, grinning sheepishly at the camera.
A familiar laugh comes from the person holding the phone—Dad’s laugh.
It strikes me like a spark down my spine, lighting up every nerve at once. Joyful even as it stings.
“That was beautiful, Lily! Fantastic.”
My throat closes, tears welling in my eyes. He sounds so proud.
Teenage me beams. “Thanks, Dad.”
Then the video ends.
The room is still.
I’m not sure I’m breathing.
Mum speaks first. “It was wonderful of you to look for this, Brandon. I can’t believe I never looked at Jem’s phone.”
“Ican’t believe you had braces,” Ellenor says to me. “I completelyforgot.”
“I haven’t. They were uncomfortable,” I say vaguely, unable to look away from the screen. It’s a moment frozen in time of a fisherman’s knit sleeve, my father’s hand extended into the frame as he gives me a thumbs-up.
I forgot about this moment.
Just like I forgot he used to wear that worn knit jumper whenever he was home. Sage green. The exact shade of the cardigan wrapped around me now.
I toy with a button, remembering when I bought it earlier this year at a secondhand store. How disappointed I was when Toby didn’t like it. How fiercely I insisted on wearing it anyway—stubborn in a way that surprised us both.
Now I know why I clung to it.
“Green,” I murmur to Brandon, brushing the soft knit.
He follows my gaze, a slow understanding crossing his face as he looks between my cardigan and the frozen frame. “It’s a good colour on you.”
His soft sincerity makes my cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
“So, what do we do with the video?” Mum asks. “It proves Lily wrote at least one of the songs, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Brandon says. “And it would be enough to discredit Jack entirely. If one claim falls apart, the rest will too.”
“Will we need a lawyer?” I ask.
Ellenor shoots me an unimpressed look. “If you want someone with a vested interest to help you nail him up, you won’t find better than me.”
