I reached for the door. “No.”
He didn’t follow me inside.
*
An hour later and I was sitting in Desiree’s car, her belongings in a clear plastic garbage bag on the passenger seat. Neither Green nor Zizza had come out to see me, and I hadn’t asked about them either. Hadn’t even attempted any small talk with the nameless badge who’d had me sign the paperwork and confirm everything on the list they gave me was there. Stuart had disappeared, though he’d texted yet another long-winded apology. I ignored it, knowing I needed to figure out what had happened so Desiree’s legacy wasn’t some hit piece disguised as a biography.
I settled back in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. The car was a four-door Tesla. I didn’t know the model or year, but it had to be new and expensive. The outside was red and shiny, the inside a stark white. You’d never know the car had been stolen, then found, then parked in some police lot in the middle of the Bronx.
It was surprisingly clean—the better to take any emergency IG-destined selfies. The thought crept into my head as I adjusted the seat: What if Desiree had actually gone old-school? Keeping the video from the night of her accident somewhere else. What if she’d kept it on a flash drive. Kept that in her car.
Of course, a car interior could hold just as many secrets as Desiree herself. Center consoles and cup holders. Sun visors and seat-back pockets. Glove boxes and map pockets that hadn’t served their intended purpose for a good ten years. Desiree’s Tesla was no exception. Just in a prettier package. I went through it all. Twice. And only yielded a hair tie and a Starbucks lid.
I was bent over the gearshift porn-star style, running my right hand under her passenger seat, when I found myself staring at the plastic bag. There had been no flash drive on the list the police had given me, but I decided to check anyway. Righting myself, I took her purse out. Or attempted to. It was heavy—no doubt the sole reason Desiree had developed such toned arms. I had to take a deep breath to lug it out and set it directly on the passenger seat, shoving the plastic bag with the rest of her stuff onto the mat on the floor. Inside the purse was a mess. She would always throw things in there and then dump them all out again if she had to find something. I figured she’d have been proud when I did the same, spilling it out across the white leather seat and surveying the contents. More hair ties. Dirty tissues. Tampons. No flash drive. I even checked all three tubes of lipstick.
In a fit of desperation, I moved on to her wallet. It was small and black, with some designer symbol I didn’t recognize. She’d bypassed all the provided credit card and money slots to shove everything into the small gap in the middle. It practically overflowed with receipts. The two on top broke for freedom and fell onto my lap. I picked one up. An ATM receipt dated just twelve hours before Desiree died. She’d taken out $50, leaving a remaining balance of $250,080.
I blinked at the number. Erin had said Desiree was dead broke. That they’d spent the money they’d conned from Free. And I got that rich-people broke was different from regular-people broke, but Erin had still made it seem like they had been living off credit. Mine at that.
It made no sense.
I stuffed it back into the wallet and reached for the next receipt on my lap. It was also from an ATM. This time she’d taken out $60 two days before she died. Her balance had been $130.
My sister had somehow come upon $250,000 in a day. Suddenly Erin’s ridiculous suggestion Desiree had blackmailed someone didn’t sound ridiculous at all.
Shitnuts.
I’d planned to take Desiree’s things straight to Mel’s apartment, but that could wait. It was time to go home. The drive was mercifully quick. I pulled into our driveway, locked the Tesla, and went inside. Aunt E’s apartment was unlocked as usual. As soon as I opened her door, I understood this afternoon’s peace offering. It had been a preemptive apology.
Erin was on the couch, rooted to the same spot like it was her assigned seat and talking on her cell. I frowned. Pissed. Last night I’d been mad that I’d let her just leave, but now I was mad she was still here. She smiled at me, but the look I gave her must have reminded her that her absence had not made my heart grow fonder. We still weren’t cool. The smile slid off her face.
Aunt E was nowhere to be found, though I heard faint shuffling in the bathroom. I made my way to the kitchen. My eyes stayed on Erin with each step as if she would grab one of Gram’s knickknacks and make a run for it.
“Well, I appreciate anything you can do to help me,” Erin said.
I shouldn’t have been surprised she was still here. Aunt E was nothing but a big softie. There was more lasagna on the stove. I dished up a plate and stuck it into the microwave to have an excuse to eavesdrop.
For a minute, Erin listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. “And like I said, I can have the money wired this afternoon.”
She hung up just as the microwave went off. By the time I’d gotten my plate out and had turned around, she was sitting at the kitchen table. Desiree’s seat at that.
“Good news!” She smiled.
I finally smiled back. “Let me guess. You’re getting your car back. Question, though. Who’d you trick into paying for it?”
We stayed like that for longer than necessary, both smiling so hard I thought my jaw would collapse. I was determined not to speak first and then I wished I had.
“You know, for someone so similar to me, you’re very judgmental,” she said.
“I’ve never had my car repossessed.”
“Okay.”
“Or not paid a bill.”
“I’ll give you that one too.”
“Or pretended to be someone I’m not.”
“Now, I’m not so sure about that one, Lena Scott. From the Bronx. I bet you pat yourself on the back every night before you go to sleep for living in the ‘hood.’” She used air quotes. “Ignoring that you choose to live here because it’s closer to the Ivy League college you’re getting your master’s degree at. You’re lying to yourself that you’re not as bad as the white people in Harlem you look down on.”
I stabbed at my pasta. “You don’t get to talk about race. Wherever the hell I live. Jersey. The Bronx. Or Mars. I’m still Black.”
She shook her head. “You’re not Black, you’re green. And no amount of daddy issues is going to change you from the poor little rich girl you are. You live in the house your grandma gave you. Live off the house your mom left you.” She nodded at the fork in my hand. “You don’t even feed yourself. Aunt E might as well be your personal chef. You can ignore your own privilege just like you ignore that expensive-ass bike your daddy gave you. Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
My smile was pinned on. “Mel doesn’t pay for my school.”
“Right, because he probably paid for the house that pays for school. And the house that lets you not have to pay rent.”
Mel had paid off Gram’s house and given my mom the house in South Orange. I couldn’t deny what she said, so I did the next best thing: deflected. “Don’t you need to go get your car?”
“I don’t want the car back. I was on the phone with Lava Lounge.”