I wanted to bolt, but when I turned around I saw it.
The living room aesthetic was comic book to the kitchen’s dark noir. All bold colors and odd-shaped furniture that didn’t look real. But what sealed it was the mural. Someone had painted a replica of one of Desiree’s Instagram mirror selfies. The wall dimensions weren’t Instagram friendly, which had forced the artist to stop at her boobs, the line of cleavage blocked by the back of her cell. The skin tone was perfect. So were the meticulously added freckles and the hair cascading in artificial waves down her back. But what got me were her eyes. They displayed the hint of mischief mixed with wonder that made Desiree’s so memorable. The painting was beautiful, capturing Desiree perfectly because she’d always been so larger than life.
Too bad someone had painted over bits and pieces in blood red, paint careening down her chest, face, and bare shoulders.
What if Erin was right—they had broken up? Had Desiree gotten pregnant by someone else? Naut couldn’t have been happy. Had he followed her to meet the new boyfriend up in the Bronx? Left her body on a playground? Harlem was just over the bridge. He could’ve been back in bed within a half hour.
I jumped when he came up beside me, but he didn’t notice. Too busy staring at her.
“Who did the mural?” I said.
“Me.”
“Who painted over it?”
“Me.”
“When?”
“Hell if I know. Three breakups ago, maybe. I couldn’t even bring myself to do the entire thing.”
“It’s beautiful.” And creepy.
“She was beautiful. That was a painting I did when I was bored.”
He handed me the drink. I hesitated before taking it.
“To Desiree,” he said.
I just stared. He downed his in two gulps. “You want to know what happened last night.” He noticed my expression. “You’re not here to say hi.”
“You told the police Desiree went to see me?” I paused, then swallowed, trying to make him feel comfortable. “I just wanted to know why. You know we hadn’t spoken in years.”
He shook his head. “I said she went to see someone. The cops filled in the blanks and said it was you.”
“You don’t know who?” When he shook his head, I pressed him. “You didn’t ask?”
I wasn’t buying it.
“Like I told the cops, I was late for my gig. When you have three thousand people waiting for you, it’s not good to run behind schedule.”
His gig. I’d forgotten. Green had said he’d been in Jersey. An alibi.
Shitnuts.
I brought the glass to my lips. It was a Lemon Drop. Her favorite. Unlike Desiree, I’ve never been a fan. So I wasn’t sure if it was that I hadn’t had so much as a glass of water all day or that I was just feeling sentimental, but this one tasted amazing. I downed it like a shot.
“Another round?” Naut said.
I just handed over my glass, and he headed back to the kitchen. I could sense him watching me as he made my next drink. It still wasn’t sexual. He filled my glass. “You two look alike. More than in pictures.”
I didn’t want to go down that road again. Not with my emotions still boomeranging. Instead, I walked over to the wall and allowed myself to really take it in. He’d gotten every freckle.
“I was so pissed at her last night.” He came up and handed over the drink. “And now our last conversation will always be a fight.”
And all I could do was nod, because I got it. The guilt. “I’m sorry. Our last convo also was an argument. Two years ago. At least you got to see her before she died.”
He looked at me. “I’m sorry too.” It took him a bit to speak again. “I lied. I don’t know who she went to see because I didn’t ask. She spent the whole night acting all excited because some dude she was hooking up with wanted to stop by. He never came.”
I stopped staring at her to stare at him. “And you think that’s who she wanted to meet up with?”
It came out rushed, but he didn’t seem to notice. Just let out half a laugh even though he clearly didn’t think it was funny. “I hoped not. Still don’t, honestly. She never said his name. I never asked. Knowing who it was wouldn’t help either of us. Different reasons, of course.” He stopped. Stared at her a bit more. “I wanted her to be the mother of my children.”
I should’ve said something about the pregnancy, but I didn’t. It just seemed cruel. And right now it was the only real clue I had. Instead, I downed the rest of my drink and went to get another refill, pouring out what was left in the shaker. She could be a selfish asshole. She didn’t realize it half the time, and the other half she didn’t care. Just like her father. “Forget painting over it, you should take a sledgehammer to that thing.”
But he didn’t laugh one bit. “I should’ve stayed. Not gone to that gig. I would’ve if I’d known she wanted to kill herself.”
It was the first time someone had assumed she’d done it intentionally. I set my glass down hard, the contents sloshing over the sides. He needed to take it back even though we were both twenty years past backsies. “She wouldn’t kill herself,” I said. “Not on purpose.”
“She was depressed.”
I flashed on Erin and what she’d told me. “Why? Because you’d broken up again? Erin said Desiree was fine.”
“Erin was too coked up to know.”
I yanked my phone from my jeans pocket, typing just as fast as I talked. “Black women, we don’t kill ourselves.” Yes, we die just as much as the rest of the population. From childbirth. Heart disease. Cancer. From accidents and diabetes and HIV. But not from suicide. I paused long enough to find what I was looking for. Then walked back over to show him. “There were more than forty-five thousand suicides in the US in 2016. Five hundred sixty-four were Black women. We don’t kill ourselves.”
He took the phone but didn’t glance at it. Didn’t accept my proof. “Then that’s five hundred sixty-four that prove otherwise.”
“No. Desiree was too vain.”
“To kill herself?”
“To kill herself like that. She’d check into the Four Seasons, run a bath, do her makeup, and down just enough pills so she looked gorgeous when you found her. She wouldn’t shoot up on a playground like a cheap hooker, especially since she was afraid of needles.”
He looked unfazed, used to upsetting members of my family tree. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost convincing. “Does it matter if you’re numb? She was upset she couldn’t get cast on another show. Felt alone. We couldn’t get our shit together. And she couldn’t talk to her family.”
I didn’t think I could get more mad, and yet. “For good reason,” I said.
“I doubt it.” He picked up my glass and drank. I was glad I hadn’t told him she was pregnant. He didn’t deserve to know. “They weren’t talking to each other,” he said.
They? Said family tree had only a few branches left. I knew she spoke with Aunt E on the regular. And Veronika took her cues from her husband, which meant one thing. “Desiree and Mel?”