Like a Sister(73)

I just stared at him. He shook his head, mock disappointment on his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Silence of the Lambs.”

We walked past the van. Inside was a white guy, shaggy blond hair covering half the phone next to his ear. He spoke animatedly, so involved in his conversation he didn’t even look in our direction. He had to be lost. My gram used to say lost white people were like sharks. Just as afraid of us as we were of them.

I felt silly. I turned to Stuart. “I have never seen Silence of the Lambs.”

“We need to rectify that. Immediately.”

“We?” I said, just to clarify he was implying what I thought.

“We. Believe the Webster’s Dictionary definition would be you and me. We. Watching the movie. While eating food.”

I still needed clarification. “Food you cooked?”

“That depends. You prefer your food to be edible?”

So he was flirting. My first inclination was to do what I always did. Change the subject. But he was nice and he was smart and he was definitely cute. There was no way I could even think about wasting time watching some movie about lotion until I knew exactly what had happened to Desiree. But maybe down the road. I liked that he already knew I’d had a sister.

I finally responded. “Sometimes. I eat eggplant, and that’s barely edible.”

“Great. I’ll make eggplant. Pair it with some brussels sprouts.”

“And bologna.”

“I actually like bologna.”

“What have you been up to?” I finally changed the subject, thought about there not being an article in today’s paper.

“I actually got some good news that’s been keeping me busy.”

I didn’t say anything more because we’d gotten to the end of the block, and the 44th Precinct was to our right, a massive two-story square covered in dirty red brick. Raised subway tracks served as a backdrop while a collection of white NYPD vans created their own parking spaces on the sidewalk. The ground sloped down so we had to lean back slightly as we made our way to the door.

Stuart noticed me eyeing it as we stopped at the entrance. “First time here?”

“And hopefully last,” I said. “I have to pick up Desiree’s stuff.”

He nodded as if he understood what that meant, then was kind enough to try to keep things light. “Inside’s not what you might expect. Nowhere near as fancy as some station you’d see on TV.”

I nodded, though I had no expectations for the décor. Just like I had no expectations that anyone inside would help me. Especially not Green or Zizza. I turned to Stuart. Considered telling him what I’d discovered.

He smiled. “You know, I really would like to take you to dinner.”

If I told him everything I’d learned, he’d help me make sense of it all. He’d just have to promise not to publish anything. At least until we figured it all out. “To celebrate your good news?” I said.

“A publisher wants me to write a book.”

That tore me out of my own thoughts. I smiled, genuinely happy for him. “Dream unlocked. Amazing news.”

“I’d like to think so. They want me to write about Desiree.”

I don’t know why that shocked me so much, but it did. “Like a true-crime book?” Suddenly I felt hopeful. “You think something happened to her when she died?”

But he just shook his head. “More like a biography.”

I took my time responding, just scratched my wrist. He didn’t rush to fill the empty space. “What about her life? I know they’re not going to pay you just to focus on her hopes and dreams. Does Mel know?”

He stepped back. “I can practically see the smoke about to come out of your ears, but it doesn’t have to be like that. People want to know about your sister, your family—especially now. And if I say no, they’ll get someone else. Talk to me. Help me share the real Desiree. The sister who got your favorite singer to write you a love note back.”

I reached for the door. “No.”

He didn’t follow me inside.

*



An hour later and I was sitting in Desiree’s car, her belongings in a clear plastic garbage bag on the passenger seat. Neither Green nor Zizza had come out to see me, and I hadn’t asked about them either. Hadn’t even attempted any small talk with the nameless badge who’d had me sign the paperwork and confirm everything on the list they gave me was there. Stuart had disappeared, though he’d texted yet another long-winded apology. I ignored it, knowing I needed to figure out what had happened so Desiree’s legacy wasn’t some hit piece disguised as a biography.

I settled back in the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. The car was a four-door Tesla. I didn’t know the model or year, but it had to be new and expensive. The outside was red and shiny, the inside a stark white. You’d never know the car had been stolen, then found, then parked in some police lot in the middle of the Bronx.

It was surprisingly clean—the better to take any emergency IG-destined selfies. The thought crept into my head as I adjusted the seat: What if Desiree had actually gone old-school? Keeping the video from the night of her accident somewhere else. What if she’d kept it on a flash drive. Kept that in her car.

Of course, a car interior could hold just as many secrets as Desiree herself. Center consoles and cup holders. Sun visors and seat-back pockets. Glove boxes and map pockets that hadn’t served their intended purpose for a good ten years. Desiree’s Tesla was no exception. Just in a prettier package. I went through it all. Twice. And only yielded a hair tie and a Starbucks lid.