She took out her wallet, stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar. His eyes lit up. Erin still didn’t look at me, just shuffled to get her drink. It was actually kind of endearing. By the time the guy in front of me ordered, her drink was ready. Erin came over to me. “Gonna go next door.”
I nodded, then stepped up, ready to order my own nonfat white mocha, no whip. I was probably the only person in the continental United States without a standing Starbucks order. But when I got to the counter, Greg’s face fell. “Are you Desiree Pierce’s sister?”
I nodded, then smiled, anxious to endear myself as I swiped my credit card. “The freckles?”
“Yeah, but also I know she and Erin were best friends. Process of elimination. I’m so sorry she died.”
“Thank you.” I was about to ask if she’d ever stopped by when he spoke first.
“She was here a couple of weeks ago.”
I nodded, thinking of the credit card statement. “Ordering a soy chai latte, I’m sure. She meet anyone?”
He shook his head, and even though I knew it had been a long shot, I was still disappointed. Greg handed me my receipt. “She just wanted to talk to Alex.”
I glanced at the man putting together my drink, then said a quick prayer before I finally spoke. “That Alex?”
“No,” Greg said. “He’s not scheduled until tomorrow.”
*
I practically skipped out of that Starbucks. Alex’s shift would start at 11 a.m. I’d hit pay dirt so quickly that Erin was probably still at the restaurant. I went inside to find her taking a selfie next to a large mirror. WHY NOT INSTAGRAM THIS HILARIOUS SIGN? was written in big block letters.
What in the entire fuck?
“You want me to take it?” My voice reeked of sarcasm. “You can post it ASAP on IG.”
She jumped when she saw me. “Lena—”
“Greg will be happy to know you’re still posting after all. How many likes you think you’ll get?”
“I only took the pic because of Freck. It’s one of the last pictures she sent me. I wanted to do a side by side. I’m not putting it online.” She held the phone out. “If you swipe you can see the original.”
But I didn’t. I said nothing at first.
“Fine, I’ll delete it,” she said.
Then I practically snatched it out of her hand. “Sorry.”
I enlarged the pic. There was a man standing in the window, hair covered with a Yankees cap, eyes hidden by sunglasses. But even with the incognito treatment, I recognized his mole. The East Asian guy I’d seen on the subway. The one who’d let me use his phone to call Aunt E.
We weren’t near the Omni hotel. He had no reason to be staring at us through a window unless…
I panicked. My first inclination was to whip my head around, and it took everything not to do just that. Instead, I forced myself to casually turn. I didn’t see him.
“Lena, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”
That’s because I was scared. I said nothing, just walked outside, this time not bothering to play it cool, almost knocking over a trophy wife and her poodle as I smacked through the door.
He was gone.
I wanted to be too.
Erin came out a moment later. “Are you okay?”
“We need to get out of here. Now.”
I hailed a cab.
*
I explained everything to Erin on the ride home. Recognizing Mole Man from the Omni. Even walking by the white van. I was so thorough that she was just as scared as I was by the time we pulled onto our block. Why would a man be following me? How long had he been doing it? And had he been inside my house?
I immediately thought of Aunt E.
I had just put the key in the lock when Ms. Paterson came out from next door, wearing gardening gloves. The rosebushes between our houses were her pride and joy—and her excuse to be nosy. On a normal day, I treated her like a man trying to say “Hey” on the street. I was polite, but I never stopped moving. This time I waved Erin inside and walked right up to the fence separating our driveways.
“Saw the police were over. Another break-in?” she said as she examined her favorite rosebush.
“Not this time.”
“Oh. Thought maybe you called them about the van.”
I started. “The white one?”
She finally looked up. “You saw it too?”
“Blond guy inside?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s an Asian guy.”
Shitnuts. “You’ve seen it recently?”
Ms. Paterson shook her head. “Now they use that Camry over there.”
I whirled around. It was parked a few doors down but with a perfect view of my front door. The windows were all pitch-black, which meant there was no way I could see who was watching me. My heart double-Dutched inside my chest.
“No one’s in there,” Ms. Paterson said. “They leave the car. Come and go as they please. I called the police. They said it’s probably a neighbor who doesn’t want to lose his spot.”
Her eye roll told me what she thought about that. For once I agreed with her.
“Usually the van comes at six a.m. Drops someone off. They sit for a few hours. Lord knows how they pee. Told the police that too.”
I was tempted to go over. Except I didn’t know what I’d find. Or maybe I was just scared she was wrong. That someone was, in fact, inside. So I stayed put. “Can you let me know if you see someone come back before tomorrow?” I said.
“I would if you answered your phone.” She’d spent all last winter bugging me about a tree so I still sent her calls to voice mail.
I promised I would, then turned to go inside. But once again I hesitated at the front door. I felt exposed. I felt scared. But I also felt determined. Being Black, especially a woman, I was used to being underestimated. The microaggressions massive in scope, like when my white male boss was surprised I’d gotten into Columbia. Or the classmate, who could’ve been his son, when he was shocked I’d done better on the economics exam. Or when these two men thought they could follow me for days and I wouldn’t find out. Wouldn’t do something about it.
I would, though.
But first I needed to get rid of Aunt E.
*
When I was twenty, I got an internship in Midtown. My mom and I hadn’t been getting along, so I’d asked Gram if I could stay during the summer. She probably had the spare bedroom ready before we even got off the phone. It was bliss. They fed me. They loved me. They didn’t bug me when I stayed out late, though I know they waited up.
But one weekend in August, Aunt E came into my room early in the morning. She’d sat on the edge of the bed, affectionately rubbing the mound that was my left leg as she spoke. “Lena, we need you to go to your mother’s house. Just for the weekend.”
I’d been half awake, but those words were as good as any shot of espresso. “Did I do something?”
“Of course not. It’s just temporary.”
“Why?”
But she was shaking her head. “Just trust me.”
And I did. Gram dropped me off later that afternoon and was back Monday morning before 9 a.m. They never said what had happened, and though I’d thought about it a few times in the past eight years, I had never, ever asked.