I kept going up the stairs. “She’s going to stay at the five-thousand-square-foot town house. The one she told me she owned. She’ll sleep fine tonight.”
“Lena, I just think you—”
But I cut her off for the second time in my life, my voice as gentle as I could make it. “And I just think you need to trust me when I say we can’t believe anything she says. Please.”
Aunt E didn’t say anything. Didn’t move either because I didn’t hear her door close. She just stood there until I disappeared.
Back inside my apartment, I grabbed Desiree’s phone as I went into my bedroom, ignored the pile of clean laundry I’d dumped on one side of the bed, and hid under my sheets like I’d just watched a scary movie. Except this time the bogeyman was my own sister, and I wasn’t scared of what I’d see in the mirror. I was scared of what I’d see on her phone.
It didn’t help that the phone woke up without any prompting. I silently cursed Erin for keeping it charged. Mel, Desiree, and I stared out. Even in pictures, Desiree was so alive I could practically hear her heart beating. It was something about her smile. In theory, it was the same as mine, worn like a too-big jacket. The same one Mel begrudgingly pulled out on special occasions. But there was just something about hers. I stared for too long, gripping the phone so tightly a film of sweat formed between the pink case and my hand.
Even though it would take only a flick of my thumb to pull up the passcode screen, I couldn’t do it.
Her phone.
The lone thing separating me from knowing exactly what Desiree had been up to. And now I had it, I couldn’t bring myself to unlock the damn thing.
Desiree hadn’t been perfect. I knew that. I’d accepted it until the day I couldn’t anymore. Her drug use had been bad, the accident worse. Even then, she’d hurt only herself. But this was different. This was lying and cheating and stealing from others. At least Robin Hood gave it to the poor.
I wasn’t just mad at Erin; I was pissed at Desiree. Death was supposed to absolve you of your sins. Make you an angel worthy of heaven’s pearly gates. It gave people who loved you—even from afar—amnesia. They forgot that you never mowed your grass. Played your music too loud. Drank too much. Held grudges. Told all their business. Never bothered to apologize for your temper. Death turned you into a great neighbor. A loving boyfriend. Someone who just liked to have a good time.
But death hadn’t absolved Desiree. It had only made her worse.
And now I was staring at my own version of Pandora’s box. Part of me hoped she’d changed the password from my birthday. That I’d plug in those six digits and nothing would happen. That I’d plug it in ten times and the phone would wipe, taking Desiree’s sins with it.
Then I could convince myself that I’d tried.
But I knew better. Knew there would always be what ifs. Erin’s voice constantly whispering in my ear, trailing me like a lost puppy. So I took a deep breath and did it, tapped the screen so the picture-perfect version of my sister disappeared and the real version could finally appear: 1–1–1–0–9–1.
The family pic was suddenly covered with row upon row of apps Desiree had meticulously searched for, downloaded, and deemed worthy of her first screen. The boring default apps had been banished. There was no Stocks or iBooks or Newsstand. Of course photos, camera, and messages still remained, joined by ones I assumed were requisite for anyone with more than a hundred thousand Instagram followers. Facetune. Linktree. Something called Afterlight. I stared for a good two minutes, then forced myself to focus.
Texts seemed like the logical first step. The green square with the thinking bubble also had a red notification—628 unread. And I knew they all hadn’t been sent post-death. I was an empty inbox type of girl. Desiree had been too but only because she’d barely used her email. Her texts were a completely different story.
And sure enough, one click confirmed this wouldn’t be easy. Desiree had barely put anyone’s name into her contacts. Just inputted their number, sending them a “Hi” or vice versa. It’d drive me bananas, but Desiree had been good with remembering people—especially ones who could’ve done something for her.
Zarah wasn’t in her first page of texts. I scrolled but still didn’t see her name. I recognized others: Naut. Erin. Tam.
I did a search, and at last their conversation popped up. A message from Desiree telling Zarah she’d gotten the box of her makeup. Couldn’t wait to try it!! Zarah responded with three heart-eyes emojis, a promise that she couldn’t wait for Desiree’s birthday, and a link to info about the Omni bar. The iMessage showed a preview of the site. It’d been sent a week before Desiree’s party.
No texts since.
I moved on to the call log. Maybe they’d been like they were as kids and spent hours on the phone. It was a repeat of the text situation: numbers mixed with names. None of them Zarah.
I had one last option. Instagram.
Her DMs were just as crowded, but at least everyone had names. Profile pictures too. Desiree had what I could only guess were thousands of messages. None of them from Zarah.
It was looking like Erin had lied. Again. And I’d just let her leave. Even packed for her. Not the best decision I’d ever made. I was tempted to send her a text along the “Hey, big head” variety but hit Starr up instead. It took her a full hour to respond. I spent the entire wait staring at my phone. Erin hadn’t arrived. They hadn’t spoken at all.
I caved and texted Erin. She left me on read.
Shitnuts.
I told myself I didn’t need her, especially now that I had Desiree’s phone. The answer to what got her killed was in here, whether through Zor-El, the video, or something else completely. I just had to find it.
For the first time in almost a week, I thought about her old dealer. Alfie was still in her contacts, but the call log showed no recent action. And when I clicked on their messages, the last one was years ago. Guess Erin hadn’t lied about that. I didn’t find Alfie’s replacement either. At least not one naive enough to mention drugs in their texts.
So I went through all her contacts again, looking for anything that could help me figure out what had happened, this time checking all the messages, those deemed important enough to be added to the contact list and those not. I checked Erin’s texts, but if they’d done anything illegal, they were too smart to put it in writing. It was all funny emojis and On my ways. The texts from Naut were filled with I’m sorrys and I love yous and Please pick ups, all in the gray bubbles. I was falling down the rabbit hole of Desiree’s life. There were no threats and there were no videos. I didn’t even find anyone who could be Zor-El.
The only thing I learned from Desiree’s call log was that Apple kept only the last hundred calls. She had a good number post-death—either telemarketers or nosy friends. Of course, my name popped up. I took a moment to realize what that meant. I was still in her phone simply as “Sis.” She hadn’t deleted my contact info.
I’d called eighteen times the day after she died.
I kept scrolling back. She’d also had a good number of calls on her birthday. If she’d spoken to Zor-El, it was lost in the sea of well-wishes. I started clicking on each name or number to check incoming and outgoing calls, even dialed a few that had more than one exchange. I only reached answering machines for clothing shops, Starbucks, and the like.