Like a Sister(60)

It was the last thing I wanted to hear. “New York?” I said, hopeful.

She thought it over. “Maybe. Bev over there thinks she’s someplace exotic, like Paris. I’m thinking LA. Miami. Someplace you can rock cleavage all four seasons. But maybe you’re right. She’d go to the city every weekend. Someone swore she had a boyfriend in the Village.”

I perked up. Desiree’s accident had been in the early hours of a Saturday. Maybe Karma was Zor-El after all. “She ever mention seeing a bad car accident while there? It’d be a couple of years ago.” Sophia shook her head. I went a different track. “What about a celeb sighting? She ever mention meeting Desiree Pierce?”

“The dead girl?”

I rubbed my left wrist, surprised at how hearing that made me feel. There had been no malice in Sophia’s words. She’d said it like she was stating a fact, like two plus two equals four. And it was a fact.

“The reality star,” I said.

Sophia thought it over. “I don’t think so. Why?”

No way was I going to tell her so she could share every detail with her next set of diners. So I changed the subject. “What’s the name of that police-feed site again?”





Nineteen



Twelve, code five, go ahead.”

Broadcastify had its own app. One that immediately pushed a premium membership with no ads. I passed on that, hedging my bets Nosy Neighbor wouldn’t call the cops while I listened to toothpaste shill. Once the app was downloaded and the Northgate police feed pulled up, I left both my food and a good tip for Sophia.

It took the first voice to realize there was a problem—I didn’t speak one iota of Cop. Between the static and the codes, I had flashbacks to high school French. I desperately tried to catch stray words, like “black car,” “Black woman,” “whistling.” At least not understanding wouldn’t tank my GPA.

It would just land me in jail.

Officer Whistle While You Work had implied the Dodson duplex wasn’t a high priority, but who’s to say the occupants hadn’t made a few more calls in the half hour I’d gone to eat?

But the coast was clear when I pulled up in front of the duplex. I’d barely gotten the car in park before I was out of it.

I walked back up the stairs. I pushed the doorbell. I watched as a door opened. Of course, it belonged to the neighbor. She was white with hair dyed the same deep black as a Sharpie and skin the texture of a walnut. I pegged her for white-people seventies.

She stepped onto the porch, holding a cordless phone. It took everything I had not to put my hands up in surrender. She met my eyes. “She’s not there.”

It took me a second to realize she wasn’t saying I’m calling the police. “Karma?” I said.

“Her mom. Nicole. Been gone since early this morning. I was trying to get your attention earlier to tell you, but then that cop showed up.”

So she hadn’t called the cops, which meant someone else had. I chewed on that for a second, then realized it didn’t matter. As long as they didn’t call them again. I smiled. “Can we go inside?”

Five minutes later, I was sitting on a couch older than I was while The Young and the Restless played on mute. A portable air conditioner gathered dust in a lone window. The room was a mess of knickknacks, family pics, and doilies. It felt like I was seven again at Gram’s. Not a bad thing.

The neighbor, Ms. Stocking, regaled me with Karma’s life story, as told by someone who’d watched it from her front window. It matched what the waitress had said. Karma had a penchant for stealing things. Clothes. Money. Boyfriends.

“Nicole hasn’t had many visitors since that girl left,” Ms. Stocking said. “Some woman’s been over a few times, but that’s about it, and even she ain’t shown up for months. Can’t say I blame either of them. Nicole Dodson is pure evil.”

I nodded. “And you don’t know where Karma went?”

“No. I just hope she stays wherever she is. And her mam—” She stopped short at a noise. “What was that?”

“Garage. Maybe one of your neighbors is going somewhere.”

“Sweetie, you see a garage anywhere around here? Somebody’s car is getting towed.”

I rushed to the front door. Sure enough, the Jaguar was being loaded onto a truck. I was expecting to see the stereotypical gruff, bearded white dude, someone who could’ve been a defendant on Judge Judy. Instead, I got a white woman young enough to make me think she must be paying for college.

Shitnuts.

I ran out, waving my arms. “What are you doing?” But I already knew the answer to that one. So I tried something new. “I’m calling the police.”

She smiled when she saw me but didn’t stop moving. “Great. I was going to swing by. Let them know that Capital One—the lender on the car—has authorized me to take repossession. You’ll save me the trouble.”

“You have the wrong car.”

“Really?” She stopped what she was doing to pull a piece of paper out of a back pocket. “License plate’s the exact same.”

She read it off. Indeed it was. Double shitnuts.

“This has to be a mistake,” I said, though Erin definitely seemed the type to forget to pay something as “unimportant” as a car note. “I can clear this up. Let me just make a phone call. You coming all the way out here was unnecessary.”