I moved on to her camera roll, figuring maybe she’d saved the video Sherry had heard her mention. I was hit with pure chaos. I’d expected the selfies and the group shots that fed her Instagram account. But Instagram didn’t have the hodgepodge of funny memes and inspirational quotes, the random screenshots of who knew what, the snaps of bags and shoes she no doubt intended to one day purchase or finagle her way to being gifted. If Gram had been an organized hoarder, her granddaughter had been a virtual one.
She hadn’t deleted a single thing. I scrolled back two years to the night of the accident, but there were no videos. Just selfies. It felt strange to see her like this. The photos that hadn’t made it to Instagram, the real look at her life. I was drawn to the ones that weren’t picture-perfect. Spent too much time on one taken in front of a mirror shaped like a large puzzle piece. She’d smiled, but I could tell she’d been crying.
It wasn’t her eyes. They were fine, Desiree having no doubt realized that as long as you don’t rub them too hard, your eyes won’t get red. No, it was the nose. When we both cried, our noses got red. I’d looked it up once. It was because of the extra blood rushing to your face. In my high school graduation pictures, my nose was redder than a Game of Thrones wedding. And even with the Fenty trying its best, I could see her slight tint peeking out. But she was still beautiful.
I stared at her for a good ten minutes, then I did what I’d been avoiding for hours now.
I searched her contacts for my own name.
I popped up.
I clicked. Stared at the messages for longer than I wanted to admit. Even though I’d blocked her, I’d spent the last two years hoping she would reach out. That she’d attempted to send an apology I never saw. Passed on a funny emoji months later as a peace offering. Reached out occasionally with a “Hi” to see if I was still being stubborn as hell and still had her blocked.
But there was nothing. The last message from me was the night of her accident. Asking if she was okay. There was still a blue dot next to it. She hadn’t even opened it.
I locked the phone and went to bed.
INSTAGRAM LIVE MARCH 1, 2017,
1:37 p.m. Eastern @RichiiiiiieRich
Richard Santos’s camera trails his best friend, Carl Softley, through a crowded, nice restaurant. Carl glances back at the screen. Nervous.
“Go.” Richard’s voice is encouraging.
Carl continues on, weaving through tables until he hesitates again.
A few feet away, Desiree Pierce and Zarah Turner sit by a window. It’s just the two of them. Their conversation looks intense, but the restaurant is loud enough that the camera doesn’t pick up what they’re saying.
Carl glances back again, his eyes going wide as Richard calls out, “My friend loves you.”
Both Zarah and Desiree pause and turn in their direction. Zarah immediately smiles as Desiree downs the rest of the yellow-colored drink in her martini glass. Carl turns his back to us again so we can’t see his expression.
Zarah smiles at him. Instantly sweet. “Thank you. You want to take a pic?”
But it’s Richard who speaks up again. “Oh. I meant her. I mean he loves you too, of course. But he loves Desiree.”
Zarah’s smile dims but still manages to stay on as Desiree now turns to Carl. “That’s super sweet. Thank you. Do you want a pic?” She glances at Zarah. “All four of us.”
“It’s fine,” Zarah says, but it’s clearly not. “I’ll just order you another drink.”
“I’m okay for now.”
“No. You need another drink.”
Desiree stands while Zarah motions to the waitress. Carl shyly walks toward her.
Twenty-Three
I finally caught a glimpse of her. She’d taken off as soon as she saw me, going full hundred-meter-dash despite wearing four-inch stilettos and the slinky black slip dress that was the last thing she’d worn. She weaved around and around the playground. She was giggling. I was quiet. Determined. But she stayed out of reach. And just when I was about to catch her, I woke up in a sweat to the sun shining through the window. I’d forgotten to close the curtains.
I was confused at first. My bedroom window didn’t face east. Then I grabbed my phone and realized it wasn’t morning at all. It was almost 4 p.m. I’d slept all day. Something I’d never done before in my life. That was Desiree’s domain.
A text from Kat had showed up on my notifications, but I ignored it—too busy looking at the date. It said Tuesday. Exactly one week since Desiree’s last day alive.
I did a search for her name on my cell. I was surprised at what I found. Practically nothing. Even the Daily News had run only a short paragraph mentioning that they had found her car and that the police didn’t think it was involved in her death.
I should’ve been happy Desiree was no longer front-page news but instead it scared me. The news cycle had moved on, which meant the rest of the world would too. What if her killer was never found? I’d seen enough true-crime shows to know that the longer an investigation took, the less likely the murderer would ever be found. And though I’d learned more about Desiree than I ever wanted to know, I was still no closer to figuring out what had happened.
Shitnuts.
I forced myself to push away the panic coming up my throat and instead focused on what I could do. What I could control. I remembered I needed to pick up Desiree’s stuff from the police precinct.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. I jumped out of bed, putting on my Rosie the Riveter shirt and black jeans again because they were the closest thing to me that didn’t need ironing. Then I bypassed the shower to brush my teeth and throw a lightweight beanie over the fuzz showing on my braids. My jeans felt looser than they had two days ago. I reasoned it was because I’d stretched them out.
Aunt E had let herself in again. She’d left a foil-wrapped plate on my kitchen counter. As soon as I unwrapped it, I knew she felt bad for trying to make me feel bad about kicking Erin out. It was lasagna. Another of my favorites that she hated making. I covered it back up. I’d go apologize myself—after I got Desiree’s things.
I kept the bikes in the hallway on the first floor, past Aunt E’s door and on the way to the basement. But I ignored my Schwinn, doubting a bike would fit in the back of Desiree’s Tesla. I’d have to walk it. I’d never been to the 44th Precinct before. Luckily, Google Maps informed me it’d take just seven minutes.
When I got outside, Google told me to head straight, and I followed as if I’d heard it say Simon Says. I thought about what Erin had told me as soon as I hit the pavement, still not sure if I could believe her. There was no proof of an argument between Zarah and Desiree. Desiree treated her cell like her virtual office, and this wasn’t 2001. The video wouldn’t be on some mysterious jump drive or backup hard drive. It’d be on that phone. And it wasn’t.
I got to a dead end. A literal one. The mechanical voice told me to go right and then left.
When Erin had realized the jig was up, it’d taken her a nanosecond to shift the blame to Zarah. Erin knew what I wanted: to find the person responsible for Desiree’s death. I just wasn’t sure of her endgame. She had sounded so sure that Desiree’s phone would implicate Zarah. But she had to know it wouldn’t. Was she willing to throw an innocent person under the bus? Did she think I was so desperate to pin the tail on Desiree’s killer I’d rush to the police station?