My first thought was her dealer, Alfie. A skinny white guy who’d transitioned into this new “career track” after his acting career fell flat. The most stable relationship of Desiree’s adult life. Needless to say, we hadn’t gotten along, playing tug-of-war for Desiree’s time. I doubted he’d missed me after she and I stopped speaking. The feeling was mutual. I hadn’t seen him in any recent pics, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t playing the back like an outfielder. It’s what he’d always been good at.
Though Detective Green didn’t know about him, it was hard to believe Alfie hadn’t brought the party favors for Desiree’s birthday celebration. Or that he’d ever make an effort to talk to the police. I’d get his contact info from Zarah. She was my best bet.
Zarah had been Desiree’s first friend. They’d met in first grade when they were the only two Black kids in their ritzy private school. They’d co-integrated for the next eleven years, and then even separate colleges couldn’t keep them apart. Zarah had jumped on the influencer thing early, amassing enough Instagram followers with her lavish lifestyle for TV to take notice. When Zarah had gotten her own reality show, Desiree came on to play her kooky best friend. But audiences loved Desiree’s antics a bit too much. Zarah claimed she wasn’t jealous, but her antics told a whole different story. When Desiree’s accident netted her a DUI and E! wanted to drop her from the cast, Zarah happily agreed. It proved to be a mistake; the ratings plummeted and the show had barely lasted one more season.
I’d heard via Aunt E they’d also stopped talking. They’d definitely stopped taking pics and tagging each other. I was one of Zarah’s ten million followers. I hadn’t seen Desiree on Zarah’s IG in years, or Desiree posting about Zarah’s new makeup line. Yet Desiree’s photos confirmed Zarah had been there last night, which meant they’d made up. I sent Zarah a quick How are you? text—mentally cheering when it went through—then checked my other messages.
There weren’t that many, but then not a lot of people had my phone number. I’d drifted away from the childhood friends over the years—even I could admit I’d started pushing people away after Desiree and I had had our falling-out.
There was a text from Omar, the one classmate I spoke to on a regular basis. This paper is kicking my ass. You doing okay?
I sighed as I figured out how to answer.
No one at school even knew I had a sister, much less that I was related to those Pierces. Even with Omar, I kept things surface. I knew he had a husband named Todd, but I’d never met him. Our relationship was predicated on shared notes, complaining about professors, and who was more excited for the return of Veronica Mars!!!
It was easier to keep people at arm’s length.
I decided to be honest. Kind of. No. Found out my baby sister died.
The response was instant. Oh no. I’m so sorry. What happened?
That one was easier to answer. I’m not sure yet.
That’s horrible. Let me know if I can do anything. Again my condolences to you and your fam.
He followed it up with three red heart emojis.
Afterward, I emailed Professor White to let him know I might miss class Friday but still wanted to drop off my paper. Then I went back to more important research.
The last photo on Desiree’s Instagram was a group shot from her party, Desiree crowded in with three others, all wearing varying smiles like they’d dressed for different occasions. Both Desiree and Zarah wore glassy expressions you’d normally find at a twenty-first-birthday party.
Next to Zarah, the cute white chick I only recognized from Desiree’s IG had a plastic expression you’d find at a graduation. Erin. She was the one who’d made her page private yet had over forty thousand followers—a transparent attempt to boost her follower count by making you essentially sign up to see what she was up to. The one who the police couldn’t find. She could be hiding on purpose. When Zarah responded, I’d see if she had her number as well.
Up next was the boyfriend, who wore the awkward look of a three-year-old at his first school picture day. He’d come around long after I’d blocked Desiree from my life and my phone. Their first posted pic was one of those cutesy “Oh look at me hugging the back of someone’s head” posts. She’d tagged him. I had, of course, immediately followed his DJ Naut account, desperate to see what he actually looked like. I was disappointed. Not because of his looks but because he barely had any personal pics—and none showing his face. He even wore a designer version of an astronaut’s helmet while performing. I only recognized him because I once Googled “DJ Naut real face.” I needed to talk to him too. Another request for Zarah.
I scrolled down past Desiree’s birthday selfie to the next pic, this one from earlier in the day, judging from the teal romper. It was one of her with Mel. Or rather, Mel’s arm. Desiree had cut the rest of him off. I wasn’t surprised. She’d gotten in the habit of doing it with the camera-shy boyfriend. Now she’d given Mel the same treatment. The only reason I recognized him was the handcuff tattoo.
What I didn’t recognize were needle marks. There weren’t any on her arms, but maybe they had a filter to eliminate that sort of thing. And her last bikini pics had been posted over a month ago. None to be seen in those either.
Next to me, Mr. Manspreader put in his headphones. Airbuds, of course. The volume so loud I wanted to ask why bother. Apparently, he was a fan of Whitney Houston. He wanted to dance with somebody. I just wanted him to be more considerate. My annoyance propelled me off the N, north on Broadway, and right through the doors of the Omni.
Some poor interior designer had gone to great lengths to make everything appear “cool and hip” with conversation clusters of stuffed red velvet couches and leather chairs. None were being used. The place was empty. Either I was early or the cops had started without me.
The check-in desk was to the right of the entrance, as far from the couches as physically possible. A lone attendant wore an expression more suited to the overnight shift. She was tired and she was over it. She was also wearing a tag that said SHERRY. I smiled when I reached her even though it hurt as much as when I’d broken my arm.
“Hi. I’m Desiree Pierce’s sister. I’m here to meet the police and pack up her stuff.”
“Why.” It was more statement than question.
I looked her dead in the eye. She didn’t blink first.
I finally spoke. “Because she died last night.”
She didn’t even pause, just perfectly deadpanned, “Well, that sucks.”
And I laughed because it sure as hell did. I needed the sudden jolt of honesty after feeling like no one else wanted to face the truth.
“Ms. Scott, you beat us.” Green was behind me, joined by a standard-issue young white guy. The type who looked like he made daily use of his Planet Fitness membership but never wiped the machines down after. “My partner, Detective Zizza.”
I reached for a handshake and instead got an eye roll. “I’m so sick of you rich kids thinking rules don’t apply to you,” Zizza said. “I don’t care what anyone says. You’re not getting in that room until we’re done.”