Like a Sister(61)

The driver was already getting into her truck. “You left the car on a public street outside your house. It was well within my rights to take repossession. Have a great day, Ms. Dodson.”

I stood there a whole minute before things slowly clicked into place, like I was completing a Rubik’s cube. Putting my phone away, I went back to Ms. Stocking, who’d taken a seat on her porch like we were a matinee. Only thing missing was some popcorn. “I hope you got that Uber app,” she said.

“You said Mrs. Dodson’s had a woman visitor. You get her name?”

She shook her head. “Walked by her once. She didn’t even bother to say hello.”

“But you’d recognize her?”

“I don’t see why not.”

I showed her Erin’s latest Instagram pic.





Twenty



I had four missed calls and three unanswered texts by the time the Uber got me to Chelsea. All from Erin.

Erin, who had changed her name from Karma Dodson. Erin, who had changed her face from Karma Dodson’s. Erin, who my sister had found out was nothing more than a con artist with a good dye job and implants probably still under warranty. I had no clue exactly what was going on, but there was no doubt in my mind it had played a part in Desiree’s death. Why else wouldn’t Erin have come clean?

I had no idea why Karma had decided to reinvent herself as Erin Ambrose. I didn’t need to know. Because if it wasn’t something shady, she would’ve mentioned it the million and one times I’d brought up Karma’s name. Instead, she’d let me go on a wild-goose chase.

When had Desiree first realized her “sister” was a fraud? When had she linked Erin Ambrose to Karma Dodson? When had she confronted her about it? Two weeks before her death? Two days? Two hours? Because there was no question that Desiree would have.

Maybe it was a leap from con woman to murderer, but I didn’t know the real Erin at all. No one did. Which meant I had no idea what she was capable of.

Once again, I wanted to get my hands on Desiree’s cell. But until the cops were ready to hand it over, I’d have to make do with what I could find on mine.

I spent the Uber ride cyberstalking and avoiding Erin’s attempts to reach me. Maybe the leasing company had tipped her off they’d taken possession of the car. If they had, it meant she knew I knew. My immediate inclination was to call and confront her from two hours, two states, and seventy-eight miles away. But the Mel in me took over. Confronting someone over the phone wouldn’t do. It needed to be face-to-face.

The dive into Erin’s Instagram account took me so deep I needed a scuba tank and wet suit. Lots of selfies in exotic locations with infinity pools, aqua-blue oceans, and an endless supply of colorful fruit trays that came pre-filtered. I scrolled back and back and back, for once not caring if I accidentally clicked LIKE. It took a good five minutes to get to her first-ever pic. It was a mirror shot in the bathroom of a Beverly Hilton hotel room. She’d tagged the location so we’d know. The filter was the flower crown, which slimmed your nose, made your eyes larger and lighter. It was exclusive to Snapchat so she must’ve transferred it over.

Looking at it now, I wondered if this was the photo she’d taken straight to her plastic surgeon. I’d seen the unfiltered Karma courtesy of Ms. Stocking. She’d looked like Erin’s fugly second cousin once removed. Flat chest. No ass. Brown eyes sandwiched between muddy brown hair and a nose a clown would don.

I went over her IG again, this time more slowly. The captions were straight from an influencer checklist. Cliché after cliché trailed by an onslaught of vague hashtags like #love and #fun. The photos were mostly solo shots, and when there were other people, they were never brothers, sisters, or parents—not even on Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. There was also no mention of where she grew up. Her last birthday was celebrated with friends on a beach in Cabo and filed under #friendshipgoals.

I cross-referenced her photos with the ones on Desiree’s account. She’d started popping up about a year ago, their first joint pic on a girls’ trip to Cannes. I wondered who’d paid.

The Uber pulled up to Erin’s town house. No one had stuck a foreclosure sign on it, so I assumed the only thing the new-and-improved Karma wasn’t paying was her car note. I flew out of the car, up the steps, and into even more of a rage when no one immediately answered the doorbell.

The door itself was black and solid enough to withstand a Wizard of Oz–level tornado, bookended by slivers of glass too thin to be considered windows. The type more for ambience than seeing inside. I didn’t care, leaning so close to the glass my nose left a smudge. It didn’t matter. Erin’s housekeeper would make it go away.

I rang the bell again, laying on it like a taxi driver in rush hour. It took her another sixty seconds to appear from the second level. She’d changed since this morning—now opting for a long-sleeved brown shirt dress with a matching belt—but the blond hair I now knew was a dye job was still captured in a ponytail.

Having made visual contact, I backed away, stopping just short of falling down the concrete stairs. Not scared of her. More scared of myself and what I might do. I needed her to explain. She couldn’t do that with my hands around her neck.

Erin finally made her way to the door. I watched as she opened it wide, then poked her head out.