I’d hit up Google at four in the morning like I was making a booty call. Lying in bed in the dark, I studied how to overdose and ignored the first mention for the National Suicide Prevention hotline. Mixing cocaine and heroin increased the risk. Was that why she’d gotten over her fear of needles? Because she’d gotten over her fear of dying?
Did any of it even matter? It wasn’t like it would bring her back.
By 5 a.m., I’d accepted that the only thing I could do for Desiree was pack up her stuff for real. Then I’d emailed Omar, thanking him for sending his notes and telling him I’d see him in Grant Writing on Monday. By habit, I checked for news stories on Desiree. There were fewer than the day before. Again, no one had had anything new to report. Not even Stuart.
Packing Desiree’s things had taken longer than it should have. Blame my mother for being one of those a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place people. Beds were immediately made. Dishes immediately washed. Clothes placed in the properly color-coded hampers. It was no surprise that she’d taught packing as an art form. Everything had been rolled and grouped and placed together just so.
Though I’d rebelled against my mother in many ways—I didn’t own a comforter, much less put one on my bed every morning—it turned out that when it came to organizing my dead sister’s belongings, the familiarity of her rituals had been oddly comforting. It had been a brief respite, one that lasted just until I’d zipped up the last suitcase.
With the bellhop taking the final traces of Desiree to the lobby, there was nothing left to do. I should’ve left then. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I found myself staring around the suite like it was Desiree’s final resting place. I couldn’t leave it like this. The place still resembled some white-boy frat house. Half-filled cups, dirty-ass plates, and so much trash that it had erupted from the bin and blanketed surrounding areas. Though I knew there were people who got paid—though not well—to tackle the mess, my home training kicked in.
Starting with the cups, I gathered as many as I could and lugged the whole lot to the bathroom. There, I dumped the liquids in the toilet, the colors combining to create a murky green much worse than anything that could come out of your body. I left the glasses in a neat line on the bathroom counter and then gathered plates as if on a scavenger hunt. The bed was made next, pillows plumped, wrinkles smoothed out.
That left the trash. The suite had come with several strategically placed trash cans. Desiree had elected to use just the one in the living room. I grabbed an empty one from the bedroom and brought it back to the mountain of mess. The excess of garbage appeared harmless. No gross food, no used tampons, nothing that would make you want to vomit. I still took no chances. I’d gotten a bottle of Poland Spring at the Duane Reade on my way over. I placed the plastic bag over my hand glove-style and picked up as much as I could.
One piece of purple paper was covered in Desiree’s handwriting. It’d been haphazardly ripped in half so the bottom of the letters was missing. I could still make it out, having read secret notes from Desiree for years.
Check Karma.
The last line of the a extended to the paper’s edge. She’d done the same thing when spelling my name. Her handwriting matched her personality. Melodramatic as hell.
Check Karma.
I just hoped it hadn’t caught up to her.
I added the paper to the new can and kept going until everything was off the floor. Then, I grabbed my book bag, left the other five dollars from my wallet, and headed out the door. It was time to check out—in every way possible.
I finally glanced at my phone as I waited for the elevator. There were enough unanswered texts from Erin that she’d resorted to actually calling me. U ok?
I hit her back. Fine. Tell you more later. I just hoped I wasn’t lying.
When I got into the elevator, I saw Stu had texted again too. Desiree’s profile is running tomorrow in the Sunday edition. Hope I captured the woman you told me about.
I wrote back. Looking forward to it.
And I was. It was going to be bedlam at Pierce Productions when Mel found out Stuart knew he and Desiree hadn’t been speaking. Part of me wanted to happen to call Tam just so I could hear him yelling in the background. He’d be even more pissed when he couldn’t find out who Stuart’s source was.
It was as close to a good mood as I’d been in since learning Desiree had died.
Stuart wrote again. Heard the police are still putting a lot of time into finding Desiree’s car.
I hearted the message, not surprised they were still focused on her ride. It would be nice to have her stuff back. I still wanted to see her phone.
Sherry was at the registration desk. It was too early for checkout so the lobby was deserted. Bored, she stared me down as I approached, barely blinking until I was just a foot away. “You look like shit.” She slapped something on the counter between us as she spoke.
The bill.
It was two full pages. Front and back. She eyed me as I turned it over, waiting, waiting, waiting. I glanced at it without really looking. At least until I got to the final page.
$38,873.13
I choked and glanced up. Sherry smiled. I’d given her exactly what she’d been waiting for. “You could buy a place for this much,” I said.
Sherry blinked at me. “Where?”
I flipped the bill back over so I could start at the beginning, paying attention this time and seeing exactly what Desiree had gotten for Mel’s money. “I don’t know. Some red state that starts with an A.”
She leaned forward so she could read upside down. “I doubt your average Alabama foreclosure comes with the Mystique spa package. Or a fifty-dollar Caesar salad.”
I noticed the name in the top right corner. “Why does this say Melina Scott?”
“Because that’s the name she used to check in.”
“Like an alias?” I’d heard of celebs using them to hide from fans and paparazzi. I didn’t think Desiree had been on that level. She’d obviously felt differently. Part of me was flattered she’d chosen me. Just like the passcode. Further proof I’d been on her mind.
“It’s the name on the credit card,” Sherry said.
“That’s impossible. I’m Melina Scott.”
“Oh? Then you probably should check your wallet.”
I didn’t have to. “She might have used my name, but she didn’t use my card. My limit’s nowhere near that high.”
“Yeah, she did. I checked her in. Visa White Card. Best believe I paid attention to the name.”
It hit me. “That heifer.”
Sherry smiled. “Let me guess. It’s your card.”
“Technically. Mel—our father—gave it to me a few years ago. I didn’t want it. So I gave it to Desiree to return.”
Sherry stopped smiling solely so she could grin again. “Pity. She must’ve forgot.”
I signed the bill, handed it back. “Well, I’ll definitely make sure this gets paid. Since it’s my credit and all.”
I pulled out my Alexa app to set a reminder for when I got home. I’d ask Aunt E to tell Tam to cut it off.
“I’m sorry, you know, about Desiree,” Sherry said. “I knew she’d been stressed, but she seemed okay the last time I saw her.”