The dive into Erin’s Instagram account took me so deep I needed a scuba tank and wet suit. Lots of selfies in exotic locations with infinity pools, aqua-blue oceans, and an endless supply of colorful fruit trays that came pre-filtered. I scrolled back and back and back, for once not caring if I accidentally clicked LIKE. It took a good five minutes to get to her first-ever pic. It was a mirror shot in the bathroom of a Beverly Hilton hotel room. She’d tagged the location so we’d know. The filter was the flower crown, which slimmed your nose, made your eyes larger and lighter. It was exclusive to Snapchat so she must’ve transferred it over.
Looking at it now, I wondered if this was the photo she’d taken straight to her plastic surgeon. I’d seen the unfiltered Karma courtesy of Ms. Stocking. She’d looked like Erin’s fugly second cousin once removed. Flat chest. No ass. Brown eyes sandwiched between muddy brown hair and a nose a clown would don.
I went over her IG again, this time more slowly. The captions were straight from an influencer checklist. Cliché after cliché trailed by an onslaught of vague hashtags like #love and #fun. The photos were mostly solo shots, and when there were other people, they were never brothers, sisters, or parents—not even on Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. There was also no mention of where she grew up. Her last birthday was celebrated with friends on a beach in Cabo and filed under #friendshipgoals.
I cross-referenced her photos with the ones on Desiree’s account. She’d started popping up about a year ago, their first joint pic on a girls’ trip to Cannes. I wondered who’d paid.
The Uber pulled up to Erin’s town house. No one had stuck a foreclosure sign on it, so I assumed the only thing the new-and-improved Karma wasn’t paying was her car note. I flew out of the car, up the steps, and into even more of a rage when no one immediately answered the doorbell.
The door itself was black and solid enough to withstand a Wizard of Oz–level tornado, bookended by slivers of glass too thin to be considered windows. The type more for ambience than seeing inside. I didn’t care, leaning so close to the glass my nose left a smudge. It didn’t matter. Erin’s housekeeper would make it go away.
I rang the bell again, laying on it like a taxi driver in rush hour. It took her another sixty seconds to appear from the second level. She’d changed since this morning—now opting for a long-sleeved brown shirt dress with a matching belt—but the blond hair I now knew was a dye job was still captured in a ponytail.
Having made visual contact, I backed away, stopping just short of falling down the concrete stairs. Not scared of her. More scared of myself and what I might do. I needed her to explain. She couldn’t do that with my hands around her neck.
Erin finally made her way to the door. I watched as she opened it wide, then poked her head out.
It was the makeup artist.
“Can I help you?” Starr smiled at me like I was dropping off a package.
My introduction must not have left much of an impression. I smiled anyway. “Hi. I’m Lena. I met you the other day.”
“Oh, right,” she said but clearly still had no clue who I was. “What’s up?”
“I was just looking for Erin. She here?”
Starr looked confused. “No. Is she supposed to come by?”
Of course this wasn’t her house.
“Sorry,” I said. “She said she was gonna stop by on her way home. She must’ve changed her mind.” I leaned in, gave her my best Perky Black Girl. “Guess I can just catch her at her place.”
“It’s done being renovated? I thought she was still staying at the Omni.”
I thanked God for trusting rich people. I knew where to go next in this scavenger hunt. But first I had a question. “How long have you been doing her makeup?”
*
Starr had known Erin for just short of eighteen months. They’d gotten close enough—Erin often hung out at Starr’s house, including the day I’d picked her up to go to see Free. Starr was vague and unbothered about Erin’s background, taking her poor little rich girl story at face value. But then so had I. I did ask about Erin and Desiree’s relationship. Starr’d never seen them fight. I got her cell phone number and left.
My walk to the subway was quick. I snatched the last open seat from a jackass in a suit who should’ve given it to me anyway, then said a quick prayer Sherry would be at the Omni front desk when I got there.
She was, just not by herself.
“Hey, girl,” I said.
The guy next to her answered. He could have inspired a ’70s disco song—white and uptight, with specks of brown hair covering an otherwise bald head. He looked primed to talk to the manager, even if he was the manager. His name tag read BRENDAN.
“Welcome to the Omni. How may I help you?”
I glanced at Sherry and the smile pasted on her face, then looked back to Brendan. “Yes, I’m here to see Erin Ambrose.”
His eyes jumped like Kris Kross but recovered quickly. “I’m sorry but we don’t have a guest by that name.”
He hadn’t even checked, which meant he knew her. The question was if she really wasn’t here or if she was just using an alias. Privacy and all that bullshit.
Sherry cleared her throat. “Brendan, I’m gonna take my break.”
“What about a Karma Dodson? She in?” I said as Sherry came around the counter.
He just gave me a look. I shrugged. It was a long shot. Short of throwing out random name combinations Erin might have checked in under, I was out of ideas. “Clearly I got the hotel wrong,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”
I was five feet out the front door when I heard my name. Sherry puffed a Newport right in front of a DON’T SMOKE WITHIN 20 FEET OF ENTRANCE sign. I walked over and strategically placed myself so any hand-me-down smoke wouldn’t come my way. “What was that about?”
“He’s uptight AF.” She inhaled. “He’s not lying, though. Erin’s not checked in.”
I sighed. “Someone said she was.”
Sherry exhaled and checked her cell. “Still got five minutes on my break. Walk with me.”
She took off. I kept up as we left a trail of smoke in our wake. Sherry waited until we were around the corner to speak again. “There’s a rule in New York City. You stay at a hotel longer than thirty days, you’re considered a tenant. And New York is a bitch when it comes to evictions. A lot of hotels don’t let you stay more than a month. You gotta check out even just for a night, then you check back in.”
Erin’s thirty days must have been up. “When will she be able to come back? Tomorrow?”
Sherry blew out another cloud of smoke as we passed a Dunkin’ Donuts. “When she pays the twelve thousand dollars she owes. Her card on file got declined. She’s been promising to give us a new one for a month.” She took another puff. “Brendan finally had enough. Told her not to come back. A shame. She’s a great tipper.”
I’m sure, especially since it was probably someone else’s money.
“Brendan wasn’t pleased when Erin was here for your sister’s party, but there wasn’t much he could do.”
“Did Desiree know?” Maybe that’s what tipped my sister off.