Like a Sister(77)

Kevin House had indeed died the night of Desiree’s accident less than ten blocks from where her car hit that stoplight. Sometime in the early morning of Saturday, May 20. No one had seen—or heard—what happened. Someone had come across his body while walking their dog at dawn. None of the papers had given Kevin’s passing more than a couple of sentences. Police had no suspects. There were no follow-ups.

The few details I did learn came from Kevin House’s GoFundMe page. He’d been a father, though the phrasing—or lack thereof—made me think not a good one. There were no positive adjectives—“beloved,” “adored,” “cherished.” Just facts. Their father had died and they needed money for a proper burial. Thanks to the fifteen-thousand-dollar anonymous donation, they’d reached their goal.

The lack of pomp didn’t change that Kevin House had been killed, and there was a good chance my sister’s car had done it. Any physical damage to the car was blamed on the stoplight.

Desiree had witnessed a murder. I just wasn’t sure what had happened next. Had the deposit not been blackmail but hush money? And if they’d paid Desiree off, why take her life? As Erin loved to point out, Zarah was the only person we knew who was there that night. I still wasn’t sure that automatically made her the driver. But it did make me more anxious than ever to talk to her. Neither Erin nor I spoke while we waited. Erin busying herself with her coffee and phone. Me watching the people who occasionally walked by, hoping and not hoping that one would be Zarah. It was after 10 p.m., but no one glanced in our direction. This wasn’t Pennsylvania. People minded their business in New York.

At 10:18, my phone buzzed for the first time in hours.

Stuart.

I deleted the notification, but Erin saw it anyway.

“Is that the reporter? Thought he was back in your good graces.”

I ignored that.

She didn’t let my bad manners deter her. “How’d he screw things up this time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No prob. I’m just glad you hate someone more than me. Maybe we could start a club. Him and me and—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hopefully you didn’t let his car get repo’d too.”

“That’s not funny,” I said. Then, “He’s writing a book about her. It’s going to be a hit piece—sex, drugs, rap music. And that’s if he just includes what people already know. He wants my help.” I mimicked his deep voice. “Someone’s going to write it, at least it’s me.”

I finally shut up, and she did nothing to fill the silence. Obviously thinking about what this meant—for her. Then she spoke. “Can Mel talk to the publisher? Get it killed?”

“Would he?”

“Maybe. He’s probably still pissed about the article. He now knows he can’t control what Stuart writes. You should talk to him.”

I was about to tell her that wasn’t happening when an Escalade pulled up. Zarah didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. When she got out of the back seat, she was alone. She looked fine. Great even. Nothing like the shell I’d seen last time.

I jumped up. But Erin was faster. “Hey, chickee.” Erin’s voice was friendly.

Zarah paused long enough to take us in as we did the same. Up close was a completely different story, like a photo with the filter removed. The two layers of perfectly applied makeup probably not from her drugstore-bound line could not hide how exhausted she looked. Like she’d been on for so long she needed a citywide power outage.

“Hey,” Zarah said. “Wasn’t expecting you two.”

“We were in the area,” Erin said. “Stopped by Ch?teau. You know Desiree loved that store. Was hoping to get something for the funeral. Lena and I were just chatting about how hard you were taking things. We wanted to make sure you were okay. Can we come up?”

Zarah paused ever so slightly, then nodded. “Sure, but only for a few minutes.”

We followed her inside, Erin and Zarah mindlessly chatting as we weaved through the hall and into the elevator. I had yet to say a word. Zarah had yet to notice.

She opened her front door, throwing her keys on the side table as we followed her in. “Have a seat.” She motioned to the kitchen counter with the pair of tall plastic chairs that looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

I sat, placing my cell on the counter. Erin took the seat to my right, and we watched Zarah fuss around her kitchen, grabbing enough stuff to make a salad. “How is everything going with the funeral? I know it’s not for a few weeks.”

Zarah looked at me, but Erin answered. “As good as can be expected. It’s invitation only so we’re getting the guest list together. Do you know Kevin House?”

Zarah paused, but more like she was trying to remember who he was. “No. But I can ask around. They go to school together?”

I just shook my head as Erin hopped back in. “Yes…” She trailed off when she saw me. “Kinda. Her professor.”

Zarah was too smart not to notice the discrepancy. “What’s going on?”

Erin was about to open her mouth. I didn’t let her. “Desiree DMed you a video right before she died. We know you saw it.”

“Twice,” Erin said.