As the Wicked Watch(74)

“Imani,” said Pam, exasperated, with her head in her hands. “Oh my God!”

Yvonne walked through the open doorway connecting the kitchen to the dining room. Biting her upper lip, she looked pensive and strained, but from her quick steps I sensed a resolve in her. “Have a seat, Jordan,” she said.

She wasn’t trying to avoid the conversation. She was ready for it.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Yvonne,” I said, and gently waved to Imani, her face covered in tears. She clutched her mom, clearly upset, and now there was a stranger waving at her.

“So you’re a hairdresser,” I said.

“Well . . . yes,” she said, glancing at Pam. “My boyfriend, Manny, Imani’s father, has a barbershop in the basement and I do hair upstairs. But please, don’t mention that. We’re not licensed.”

That’s the least of my interests.

Yvonne leaned down to put Imani in her bouncer seat, then sat back on the couch with her head down and her hands in her lap. Her blond-streaked bangs nearly covered her eyes.

“Yvonne, you were one of the last people to see Masey,” I said. “What was she like that day before she left on her bicycle?”

Before she could answer, Pamela interjected. “I miss my baby so much. Just looking at Imani with Yvonne, I think about how Masey was always over here, making videos for her MySpace page with her friends. Yvonne would do her hair for her. She had a different style every time she came home. How did we get here so fast?”

“What were her videos about?” I asked.

“She’d do dance routines and model clothes. Half the time they were my outfits,” she said.

“The rest of the time they were mine,” Yvonne chimed in. “And her hair had to be on point.”

“Yep,” Pam said, brightening up a bit. “She wanted to be a star. She wanted to be famous. I wanted her to focus on the gifts God gave her, her beautiful mind, her intelligence. Masey was so smart. I told her: ‘You want to be as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside. Don’t rely on your looks, or how fine somebody tells you that you are.’ But all she talked about was being famous, being a model/actress and moving to L.A.” Pam went on: “I guess that’s part of growing up. But I admit she looked a little too grown up for me at times, especially in those videos. And I told her: ‘Ease up on the mascara. You don’t need all that makeup.’”

Yvonne was listening, but she seemed to be somewhere else. She moved around nervously. Imani held her arms out to her mother and Yvonne picked her up, looking agitated and breathing heavily. Her body language was unsettling.

What’s going on here?

Yvonne was clearly having a moment, and not the same moment that Pam was experiencing. Tears streamed down Yvonne’s face. “I’m sorry . . . Pam,” Yvonne said. “I loved her so much. You know I did.”

Something felt off. I got the feeling that Yvonne’s sorry had nothing to do with what Pam was talking about.

“I know this is devastating for both of you. I can’t pretend to imagine what this is like,” I said. “Yvonne, I’m trying to get some answers here. I’m worried that the more time that goes by, the less likely we are to find out what happened to Masey.”

I rephrased the question. “Yvonne, what do you remember about that day? Anything stand out before Masey left on her bike to go home?”

“I really don’t,” she said. “There was nothing different about that day. Nothing. I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head. Nothing. There was nobody in the area I didn’t recognize. No cars I hadn’t seen before. Nothing.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done this to Masey?” I asked.

“No,” she said flat out.

“Did you see my report yesterday about someone picking Masey up from school?”

“I didn’t see it, but I heard about it. They’re saying someone was picking her up from school all the time?” she asked.

“Nobody said all the time, but people at the school said at least a couple of times, yes,” I said.

Yvonne paused and rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Pam,” she said, choking up, “I’m sorry. There’s something I’ve got to get off my chest.”

“What?” Pam asked, leaning back and tilting her head inquisitively.

“Masey really wanted to be famous,” Yvonne reiterated. “She was constantly talking about modeling and acting, and making a demo of professional quality, you know. Something she could send to a studio.”

Pam interrupted. “Like the stuff on her MySpace page.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Yvonne said. “I think her wanting to be famous might have gotten her in trouble.”

“What do you mean, it might have gotten her in trouble?” I asked.

Yvonne’s sobbing grew louder, and she had to pull herself together before she could continue. “Mase . . . she met this guy named Terrence,” she said, catching her breath. “He, uh, he told her he could produce her video, and he had contacts in the recording and modeling industries that he could show it to. Masey told me how dedicated he was to helping her and how he promised to focus on her and make it happen.”

“Masey asked me if she could do a recording session with her friends, and I said, ‘No. I want you to focus on this new school I prayed for you to get into,’” Pamela said. “You saw her. How much more adult she’d started to dress. You weren’t suspicious?”