Like a Sister(14)

The Rolex ticked.

The suit had plastic, painted buttons.

The gold plating was wearing off the ring.

Normally I wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have cared. Other than a serious sneaker addiction—the only good thing to come out of my first relationship during my freshman year at Penn—I wasn’t much for material possessions. I only recognized the telltale signs of “Fake it till you make it” because of Desiree. She’d had the ability to tell a person’s entire net worth with just a once-over. There were worse party tricks.

She had always been into things, another of her addictions. Another way to chase the high, being the first to wear this or purchase that. But like coke, it was all temporary. If she were here, no doubt whining about why we were taking the subway instead of an Uber, she would’ve pointed out his missteps one by one—to him and to me—from his overgrown hair down to the uneven seams on his shoes.

I, however, had more important things to do, like check social media. It would not be the first time I’d spent an entire subway ride on Instagram. I had an account. Technically. I’d caved and gotten one I kept on private after starting grad school. My posts were few and far between, and never included my face. I’m sure the few friends I still had had forgotten I even had an account. And whereas I only accepted follow requests from people I knew, I followed with abandon, fully embracing the twenty-first-century version of stalking. Natural-hair influencers. Cooking experts. Gossip gurus. A therapist would have a field day with how my behavior was a holdover from my childhood, the only time I spent with my family through the pages of magazines. But I had never followed Desiree’s account. Never commented. Never liked. That didn’t mean I hadn’t seen every post—even though it’d meant continually having to search out her username. Like I did now.

The RIP comments were still coming fast and furious on her most recent post. But I didn’t care about that one. I’d seen it already. Had analyzed it like a forensics expert. I cared more about the others. Instagram wasn’t known for its honesty. It was filtered in more ways than one.

Though Desiree had technically celebrated the big twenty-five on the Omni hotel’s rooftop, in reality she’d celebrated it on Instagram. Every moment had been properly captured, filtered, posted, or storied. While I’d checked out each post earlier, I’d been focused on Desiree. This time I wanted to see who had been around her, hovering in the background. If I just zoomed in enough, maybe I could use some warped Spidey sense to figure out who had given her the heroin.

My first thought was her dealer, Alfie. A skinny white guy who’d transitioned into this new “career track” after his acting career fell flat. The most stable relationship of Desiree’s adult life. Needless to say, we hadn’t gotten along, playing tug-of-war for Desiree’s time. I doubted he’d missed me after she and I stopped speaking. The feeling was mutual. I hadn’t seen him in any recent pics, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t playing the back like an outfielder. It’s what he’d always been good at.

Though Detective Green didn’t know about him, it was hard to believe Alfie hadn’t brought the party favors for Desiree’s birthday celebration. Or that he’d ever make an effort to talk to the police. I’d get his contact info from Zarah. She was my best bet.

Zarah had been Desiree’s first friend. They’d met in first grade when they were the only two Black kids in their ritzy private school. They’d co-integrated for the next eleven years, and then even separate colleges couldn’t keep them apart. Zarah had jumped on the influencer thing early, amassing enough Instagram followers with her lavish lifestyle for TV to take notice. When Zarah had gotten her own reality show, Desiree came on to play her kooky best friend. But audiences loved Desiree’s antics a bit too much. Zarah claimed she wasn’t jealous, but her antics told a whole different story. When Desiree’s accident netted her a DUI and E! wanted to drop her from the cast, Zarah happily agreed. It proved to be a mistake; the ratings plummeted and the show had barely lasted one more season.

I’d heard via Aunt E they’d also stopped talking. They’d definitely stopped taking pics and tagging each other. I was one of Zarah’s ten million followers. I hadn’t seen Desiree on Zarah’s IG in years, or Desiree posting about Zarah’s new makeup line. Yet Desiree’s photos confirmed Zarah had been there last night, which meant they’d made up. I sent Zarah a quick How are you? text—mentally cheering when it went through—then checked my other messages.

There weren’t that many, but then not a lot of people had my phone number. I’d drifted away from the childhood friends over the years—even I could admit I’d started pushing people away after Desiree and I had had our falling-out.

There was a text from Omar, the one classmate I spoke to on a regular basis. This paper is kicking my ass. You doing okay?

I sighed as I figured out how to answer.

No one at school even knew I had a sister, much less that I was related to those Pierces. Even with Omar, I kept things surface. I knew he had a husband named Todd, but I’d never met him. Our relationship was predicated on shared notes, complaining about professors, and who was more excited for the return of Veronica Mars!!!

It was easier to keep people at arm’s length.

I decided to be honest. Kind of. No. Found out my baby sister died.