Like a Sister(30)

My mom always swore Free’s backstory was pure bullshit, that the first time he’d held a gun was in the “Wasted” video. That Mel had had a rougher background than Free. But it didn’t matter if Free had actually joined a gang in his previous life; there was too much money at stake in this one. He’d lose everything if his wife left him because he’d gotten another woman knocked up—even if that woman was Desiree Pierce.

I couldn’t get out of that building fast enough. I ran straight into Bryant Park, New Yorkers instinctively sensing something was off and getting out of my way. The city had set up clumps of small, dark green tables that could barely fit their matching metal chairs. I sat in one anyway and scratched my wrist until it felt like I’d uncovered bone.

Free.

The few memories I had of him were good ones. Great ones. He was the reason I knew star quality wasn’t something publicists made up for press releases. I’d picked up on it even as a kid. It helped he’d paid me more attention than Mel had, sneaking me candy, listening to my too-long tales of preschool, turning the studio into a makeshift bowling alley courtesy of alcohol-free red Solo cups and tennis balls.

I had to remind myself that I hadn’t seen him in decades, didn’t think of him unless he popped up on the radio or my YouTube suggestions. I doubted Desiree had known him at all. He and Mel had fallen out when she could barely walk.

I’d never expected him to factor back into any of our lives—especially not like this.

It’s all good, baby, baby.

I said it over and over until my wrist stopped aching and the Super Black Woman returned. I didn’t know what this meant. Not knowing was something I wasn’t used to. I didn’t like the feeling at all. If Free was involved—whether in Desiree’s death or just in her life—I needed to know, which meant I needed to find him.

Confronting him was out of the question. This wasn’t Law & Order: Hip-Hop. No, I just needed him to admit something—anything that I could take straight to Green to get him to see that Desiree’s death hadn’t been an accident. I pulled out my phone and searched to see where Free might be. He’d owned a SoHo loft BC—before cheating. But in what was probably an effort to prove how serious he was about a fresh start, Free had sold it and set up home base in Atlanta, which meant I didn’t even know if he was still in New York, much less where in town he’d be. According to Wikipedia, which I used so much I actually gave them five bucks whenever they asked, New York City had 270 hotels and 75,000 rooms. And who knew how many Airbnbs? I couldn’t knock on every door, no matter how much I wanted to.

Free was as private as he was old-school. No Instagram. No Twitter. Definitely no TikTok. Not even ones run by publicists and well-compensated social media strategists. I couldn’t even use context clues like I’d done with Naut. Still, I checked Desiree’s pic again anyway. Just as I suspected, she’d cut off more than Free’s face. She’d also cut off any revealing details about where they had been. I moved on to the caption.

Vibes. It was followed by the camera emoji and a link to the photographer’s IG handle.

Erin.

*



“Erin!” Someone called from across the room.

Erin waved, a queen addressing a loyal subject. She smiled too, but sitting across from her, I could see it didn’t reach her perfectly made-up eyes. I glanced over to see who’d yelled. I couldn’t tell you the woman’s name, but I recognized her. I’d hit SKIP AD for her new TV show the last time I was on YouTube checking out natural hair tutorials.

Erin refocused on me. “I’m really glad you called. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

This time it was my smile that faltered. I just nodded and glanced at the menu.

She kept on. “What are you thinking of getting?”

“The gnocchi.”

“Good choice.”

“Great. Maybe I’ll get two.” Based on the plates at the table next to us, the portion size was minuscule.

Manhattan is known for its skylines, not its malls. There was a pitiful attempt at one down by the Macy’s flagship in Herald Square. When the World Trade Center reopened, they’d thrown a mall in there too. One that looked more like the set of an overpriced neo-noir sci-fi action film than anywhere you’d actually want to shop. My lone excursion had been rushing through it to catch a 3 a.m. PATH train to Jersey. It had felt like I was running for my life. And then there was Columbus Circle, where we sat now.

We were on the fourth floor. A spot called Amico. Cheesecake Factory it was not. But you didn’t come here for the food. You came to be seen, which is why I felt instantly invisible. The only thing salty in the place was me—still pissed from my chat with Tam. Central Park was across the street. Once again, it made me yearn for a bike ride. But it’d have to wait. I was doing lunch.

Stuart Jones had wanted to meet for lunch too, before his meeting with Mel, but I’d decided talking to Erin was more important. I’d gotten here early as usual, which gave the blond hostess fifteen minutes to straight ignore me without so much as a “Do you have a reservation?” For once, I didn’t mind, too focused on getting Green on the phone. I’d tried every number listed on his card and some that weren’t, but even the cop who answered the main line at his precinct couldn’t find him. I left yet another message.