“Lena. What a surprise.”
Tam held a travel mug, no doubt filled with coffee, and an actual newspaper. She looked tired. I scrambled up and scurried behind her as she used her key card to open first the glass doors and then the door to the inner sanctum. She held it open for me. “Your father’s not in yet.”
Good.
We made small talk until we got to her desk and sat down. Her morning routine consisted of booting up her computer, changing into her heels, and pouring what was left of her coffee into a real mug. Once done, she finally spoke. “How was the hotel?”
“Drug-free.”
I left it at that because I sure as hell wasn’t telling her about the pregnancy test. Or that I thought someone might have been involved in Desiree’s death. Mel would know it all before I could even pause to take a breath.
“Did that reporter contact you?” she said. “The guy from the News?”
Tam read gossip religiously, everything from Page Six to Instagram accounts like The Shade Room. It wasn’t because she actually cared. Tam was more likely to watch real lions of the Sahara than The Real Housewives of Atlanta. She was monitoring them for mentions of Mel. Any negative stories would be sent to his publicist or his lawyer, depending on the severity. Tam had even been known to call a reporter herself to relay a choice message.
“He texted me. I ignored it.”
“He covered your sister’s car accident a couple of years ago. Had some source that knew too much. Even got some award for his reporting. Now he wants to do a longer, in-depth story on Desiree’s life.”
He’d mentioned it in the suck-up text he’d sent. The one I’d ignored.
Tam kept on. “Mel thinks it’s a good idea. He’s going to talk to Stuart this afternoon. We want you to as well.”
Of course they did. Mel had always taken a “Keep your enemies close” approach to business, but I was still surprised he’d talk to the press.
What wasn’t a surprise was that Mel assumed I’d go along with this new plan.
“We just hired a new publicity firm,” Tam said. “They’re working up some talking points.”
Talking points. My sister had been dead for just over a day and she was already reduced to bullet points crafted by some publicist probably coming off her first internship. I wanted no part in any of this. I’d just forget to text Stuart Jones back until after the article ran.
Tam noticed my expression. “Stuart’s going to do the profile no matter what, so we want to control the narrative. Focus more on positive things. How much she meant to the family. Her career successes. How excited she was to turn twenty-five.”
That was my in. “Oh, so things were fine between Mel and Desiree.” It was posed as a statement even though it was a question. “Because I’ve heard they weren’t even speaking.”
“I can set up the interview if you’d like. Have someone from the publicity firm staff you.”
She sipped her coffee. Again, I wasn’t surprised. Tam protected Mel from everyone, including his own kids. But I was still going to push the issue. I thought about the pregnancy test. “What started their argument? A boyfriend, maybe?”
Another sip. “I can send over the talking points as soon as they’re ready.”
“Will they cover why Mel and Desiree were mad at each other?”
She took another sip. Or tried to.
“It’s empty,” I said.
She set the mug down. “Families have disagreements all the time. Doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. You should know that better than anyone, Lena.”
We took each other in for longer than needed. I finally spoke. “I do. You made sure to tell Mel any time I had an issue with Desiree. And to tell Desiree any time I had an issue with Mel. But I guess I don’t get the same courtesy, huh?” It still hurt, even now that Desiree was dead. I took in a breath and stood up.
Her eyes didn’t follow me. Too embarrassed. The human part of her was breaking through, the Terminator T-800 finally showing emotion. “Wait,” she said softly. “You know it’s not my place to talk about this, but I can share that it’s really hurting Mel they weren’t in a good place. That he wasn’t able to see her on her last birthday. I’ll have him call you when he gets in.”
“Fabulous!” I said, though I didn’t mean any of the three syllables. “I’ll take my phone off vibrate.”
And with that I was gone.
If Mel wanted to use me to “control the narrative,” to push some perfect-family bullshit, then I could have “talking points” of my own. I banged out the door to reception, mumbled goodbye to the blonde now sitting behind the front desk, and stopped dead in the middle of the Hall of Hits to text Stuart Jones. When can you meet up?
After I hit SEND, I forced myself to breathe deeply, mentally reciting Biggie even if it wasn’t all good. Once I calmed down, I realized the trip wasn’t a complete cluster. Tam had confirmed one thing Naut’d told me. Desiree and Mel hadn’t seen each other before she died. So what about that Instagram photo? I pulled it up. It definitely wasn’t a throwback. She’d had the same teal romper on in other posts that day.
The man in the photo wasn’t Mel. But that tattoo…
I looked up just in time to see Free once again cradling baby me to his chest. His bare arms covered in blood—and a very familiar handcuff inked on his wrists.
INSTAGRAM LIVE APRIL 18, 2019,
12:30 a.m. Gulf Standard @TheDesireePierce212
Desiree Pierce stares at the screen. Comments scroll over her neck and chin before disappearing.
You one of those annoying people who look better without makeup, sis!
I’ve been wondering where you been.
Pull the camera back some, ma! Let’s see what you rocking.
She laughs at the last one. “Pull the camera back? You just want to see my tits.”
But she obliges, revealing a cleavage-less T-shirt. She’s in bed, hair down and uncombed.
She pushes a button on her phone. Suddenly the screen divides into two squares stacked one on top of the other. Erin Ambrose appears in the bottom box. “Oh, Freck,” she says. “You look like shit.”
“That’s ’cause I slept with my head in the toilet.”
“You’ve been throwing up?”
“Yes,” Desiree says. “Think it’s food poisoning.”
“Just you?”
She nods and flips the camera angle. “You guys have to see the view, though.”
As she gets up, she knocks a man’s watch off the nightstand. Desiree’s hand picks it up and dismissively puts it back. She heads toward the window.
“Look at this!” She tips the camera down. She’s on a high floor of a skyscraper.
She brings the camera back up. At this height only the tips of sleek silver buildings are in frame, contrasting with a clear sky that’s a mix of purples and deep oranges.
More comments scroll by.
That Audemars Piguet is 50Gs at least. Sis is so rich she don’t even care.
I would trade places with your sick ass in a heartbeat.
Definitely worth the trip. From the US. And from the bed!
Desiree reads that one and laughs. “And I can’t even enjoy it!”