I took off again and he followed. Stuart had half a foot on me at least, so he had to slow down to match my stride. I refused to run. This wasn’t the climax of a rom-com.
“I hope I didn’t get you grounded.” He smiled again, and when I still didn’t return it, he continued. More serious this time. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only Pierce who reamed me out today.”
“I’m not a Pierce.”
I quickened my pace. He finally got the hint. I didn’t need to look back to know he was standing there watching me.
I did two and a half loops around Central Park before I felt right enough to ride home. All I could think about was my convo with Mel. He knew something about why Desiree had been in the Bronx at four in the morning.
My stubbornness kick-started. I’d spent over twenty years without his help, and I sure as hell didn’t need it now. I’d find Karma Dodson and then I’d find who killed my sister and then I’d tell him I’d handled it on my own.
I didn’t look at my phone until I got stuck at the Shakespeare intersection.
Stuart had sent me another text.
*
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell him to shove it.”
When I got home, Erin was back where I left her: on my couch, staring intently at her cell.
“And get knocked into next week?” I said. She obviously didn’t grow up in a Black household. “You tell your dad to shove it growing up?”
“I didn’t tell my dad anything. He wasn’t around.”
“Divorced?”
“Worse. Business trips. And vacays. Looked like fun from the photos.” She flopped further on the sofa. “Even now I don’t talk to my parents much. Not that they seem to notice. We’re like planes passing in the night.”
“Did you at least have a sibling?” I sat next to her.
“No. But I had a lot of nannies. My favorite was Altirice. She was French, lasted a good year before my mom found out my dad was fucking her. All my nannies after that were a lot older. And never wore makeup.”
I laughed, then she laughed too, and we just stayed like that for a moment. It was much better than crying. It felt kind of nice to be reminded I didn’t have a monopoly on shitty parents.
When we finally lost steam, Erin changed the subject. “I heard back from two Karmas. Neither of them had any clue what I was talking about.”
It was disappointing, but it meant we could narrow it down. “Who’s left?”
“Pennsylvania. I can message her again.”
“No need.” I held up my cell. “Mr. Daily News sent me contact info for her and her family. Well, all three of them, but you said the others aren’t ours.”
Erin thought it over. “That’s one way to apologize. I prefer jewelry.”
Laughing, I stood up. “I’m calling PA Karma now. Maybe she’ll answer.”
But she didn’t. I got four rings before the voice mail kicked in saying I’d reached the Dodson residence. I left a message knowing damn well most people hadn’t checked their voice mail since 2012. “Yes, hi. I’m looking for Karma Dodson…”
I trailed off, unsure what to say next. It felt too complicated. All the bits and pieces needed to be parsed out over a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, not contained after a beep. I settled for a Law & Order impression. “We believe she might have been at the scene of an accident a couple of years ago.”
Erin’s eyed widened and she shook her head. She was right, it sounded way too accusatory. I tried to reroute. “She was a Good Samaritan. Saved my sister’s life. And I wanted to thank her.” I paused, then added one additional thing. “With a reward.”
When I hung up, Erin was giving me the kind of smile parents reserve for the participation medal winner.
“She’s not going to call back,” I said.
“I mean, she might.”
She didn’t. I kept trying. Unanswered call after unanswered call even though Erin pointed out that all Dodson residents may be at work, then at dinner, then in bed. I didn’t get a hit until six the next morning. Erin had stayed over again, obviously not wanting to go back to her empty oversize town house. I was fine with it, especially since it’d been another night of s’mores and talking too loudly over a Netflix marathon of Russian Doll. I’d been the one to crash first, dreaming once again of hide-and-seek, and was only up because of my damn bladder. I balanced on the edge of my bed, my silk scarf barely holding on, while a woman’s voice picked up on the second ring, sounding as sleepy as I felt. “Yeah.”
“Karma Dodson?”
There was a pause. “Who is this?”
“I left a few messages. I—”
“Stop calling.”
It was followed by a click. I immediately called back. Someone picked up, then hung up again. Fine. If she wanted to play it like that, I’d just reach out on Facebook. I pulled the app up on my phone and did the now familiar search. Only two Karma Dodsons popped up.
She’d deleted her profile.
POSTED MAY 20, 2017,
3:00 a.m. Eastern @ItsMyMyMyers
A parking garage. Alyssa Myers is next to a sign advertising a $5.99 special in big black letters.
Alyssa leans into the camera and stage-whispers, “Y’all. You won’t even believe this shit. So me and Jazz are at Marquee. We leave. ’Cause we both gotta work in the morning. Y’all. Guess. Who. We. See.”
She flips the camera to show us a woman in a black minidress bent over like she might throw up. Another woman stands next to her.
Alyssa speaks again. “Y’all, that is Desiree Pierce. Let me tell you, sis is lit. Jazz has been trying to stop her from puking her guts out for five whole minutes. You know Jazz, always trying to help someone.”
Alyssa pauses as we hear Desiree Pierce start to gag. Jazz Brown pats her back. Desiree throws up as Alyssa continues her play-by-play. “Y’all, she is gonna puke all over her Gianvito Rossis.”
Jazz rushes to grab Desiree’s hair, then yells back. “Alyssa, you gonna film or you gonna help?”
Alyssa opts for both, keeping the camera on as she rushes over. She zooms in on the vomit as Desiree finally straightens up, and Jazz lets go of her hair. Eyes glassy, Desiree wobbles. She notices the camera and attempts a smile. “Hey!”
Alyssa speaks from behind the camera. “You okay, sis?”
“Probably something I ate.”
“Or drank.” But Alyssa says it so low that Desiree doesn’t hear her.
Desiree’s too distracted by an incoming text. Her voice is singsongy as she dances. “Guess who might be getting some. Guess who might be getting some.”
Alyssa quickly turns the camera, gives it a quick bugeye, then turns it back around. “Yeah?” Alyssa says. “What’s his name, sis?”
But Desiree’s not paying attention. She’s looking off somewhere. Her eyes narrow, and she ignores the valet when he drives up in a Mercedes and stops a few feet away. He gets out, tries to hand her the keys.
Alyssa finally speaks again. “Your car’s here.”
Desiree snatches the keys out of the valet’s hand.
Eighteen
I raced to the guest room like Pennywise was giving chase. I did manage to knock. I just didn’t bother to wait for Erin to tell me to come in. “Where’re your car keys?”