Like a Sister(75)

“I don’t want the car back. I was on the phone with Lava Lounge.”

It was the bar Desiree’d partied at the night of her DUI.

She kept on. “The woman I spoke to didn’t work there two years ago and didn’t know who did. But she promised to ask around. Maybe we could talk to them. See if they remember Zarah leaving that night with Desiree.”

It was actually a good idea. But still. “They’re gonna be pissed when you don’t give them that reward.”

She looked away before I could see whether that one had hurt. If it didn’t, the next one would. “I have good news too. I unlocked Desiree’s phone.”

She couldn’t help it. She turned back, excited. “And?”

I finally took a bite. Took my time chewing, then swallowed. “And nothing. Literally. They were friendly. Happy to be back in each other’s lives. Their last texts were a few weeks ago about Zarah’s makeup line. Hadn’t texted since.”

There was no way I was telling her about the deposit or the MIA video.

“You went back to the night of her accident?” she said.

I nodded. “Just some drunk selfies, no videos. I even checked their DMs. There was nothing.”

Erin jumped up. She got only two feet before I caught up, grabbing her nearest wrist. “Now you want to leave,” I said.

“I’m just grabbing my phone.”

Pulling her hand away, she continued into the living room, me following so close I would’ve slammed into her if she’d stopped short. She grabbed her phone from the couch just as we heard Aunt E’s voice from the hall. “You two getting along?”

Erin’s smile looked genuine. “Trying to.” She turned to me. “Let’s go to my room.”

It wasn’t her room. It never would be. I smiled at Aunt E as we passed, and she lightly grazed my arm. I stopped while Erin kept on. Aunt E waited until Erin had disappeared into the spare bedroom before she spoke. “Friends close. Enemies closer.”

I nodded, relieved, then finally followed Erin. She hadn’t bothered to make the bed. I stepped over both throw pillows and sat next to her. My eyes immediately went to the chip on the wood nightstand, left when I’d pushed Desiree during an unsanctioned game of indoor hide-and-seek. We’d both ended up hiding as soon as we heard Gram stomping down the hall.

Erin tapped a few times and handed me her phone. It was open to Instagram, an account I hadn’t seen before, though I did recognize the person in the endless stream of silly selfies. “Zarah’s finsta,” she said.

“I know.” At least in theory.

People created “fake Instagram” accounts to unironically show a more real side, a counterpoint to the pitch-perfect public persona they presented on their main account. Finstas were normally private and reserved for close friends. They were for the photos you couldn’t share with your millions of followers, your parents, or your boss. Photos you didn’t have to spend way too long Facetuning. Those photos were for other people. These were for you. It was a favorite of celebrities and teenagers alike.

“So you checked the DMs to this account too?” Erin said.

I hadn’t, though I should’ve realized Zarah would have one. I’d heard of them but never actually seen one. Desiree had never had one, once telling me she didn’t feel the need. It didn’t count if it couldn’t be liked by at least ten thousand people.

I didn’t say anything, which was all the answer Erin needed.

“They weren’t texting each other because they’d moved to DMs,” Erin said. “Humor me. If I’m wrong, you can enjoy yourself by saying ‘I told you so.’”

I stood. “Fine.”

We moved in sync, traveling back past Aunt E as she watched Judge Judy, heading out of her apartment and up the stairs to mine. Desiree’s phone was where I’d left it on my nightstand. Erin took my room in as I turned my back to her to put in the passcode and open the app. “What’s the screen name again?”

She told me. I pulled it up, clicking on messages.

“You telling me so or not?” Erin said.

When I didn’t respond, she moved to peer over my shoulder. We stared at the last DM. Desiree’d sent it to Zarah at 2:07 a.m. the night she died.

All it had was a video icon.





Twenty-Four



I pushed the icon. Nothing happened. I pushed again.

“It’s gone,” Erin said.

“That’s impossible.” I hit it again but still got nothing.

“No, that’s Instagram. It doesn’t keep a record of what you send someone.”

I spent a lot of time on Instagram but with the sole purpose of keeping tabs on people I didn’t want to talk to. I’d never sent—or received—a DM. “Why would they do that?”

“Blame Snapchat.” She looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

I let my hand drop. “I think there’s a video from the night of Desiree’s DUI.”

Sherry had said so. Erin nodded. I waited, expecting her to get on me for holding out because that’s sure as hell what I’d do. Instead, she stuck out her hand. “May I?”

I hesitated, then handed it over. Erin long pressed the video icon. A menu popped up, offering Reply, Details, and Unsend. She selected Details, opening yet another menu. It had the time when the video had been opened—a few minutes after it was sent.