Grown(65)

“Grandma . . . I’m in trouble.”

She nods. “Yes, baby. You are.”

“And I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, what would Ariel do?”

“Maybe run away from home?” I chuckle. “Trade her voice for some legs?”

Grandma shrugs and flips a few channels, humming, landing on E! News. There’s Richie. Talking about the upcoming Korey documentary. No watch on his wrist. Jessica must have told him. I doubt she’d take it, knowing how it could implicate her. She’s smarter than Richie. She must have told him to get rid of it. But he wouldn’t throw it away, and he couldn’t be dumb enough to pawn it. So he must still have it . . . somewhere.

“Grandma, I have to go.”

“Where to?”

I smirk, zipping up my hoodie. “To save myself.”

Grandma smiles. “OK, baby. Have fun.”





Chapter 83


Family Over Everything




“Hey! Surprised you called,” Derrick says, opening up the peach french doors to his Upper West Side condo.

“Was in the neighborhood,” I lie. The hour-and-change commute from Queens into Manhattan gave me enough time to brainstorm all the lies I’m about to tell him.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. Heard about the charges. I’m . . . sorry, Enchanted.”

He rubs my shoulders and I lean into his warm hands. It feels good to be held. Something I miss . . . with Korey.

Panic beats against my chest, and I step back, turning in a circle.

He’s not here, Enchanted. Korey is not here. You’re safe.

“Hey, you OK?” Derrick asks as I rub my temples, trying to regain control.

“Uh, yeah. So, is your dad stopping by any time soon?”

“Nah. And my mom is on some business trip. It’s just us two.”

There’s a hunger in his eyes that makes me fidget.

“Um, you said you wanted to show me a photo?”

“Oh! Yeah! Come on, it’s in here.”

Derrick’s home is lavish. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, gold fixtures, rose-colored furniture, and enough plants to make a greenhouse jealous. Pictures of Richie with all kinds of music royalty hung up in every available space.

We pass three bedrooms, one with a double door and a gold lion painting.

Must be the master bedroom.

“Right in here,” Derrick says, making a sharp left into the pink-and-leopard office. On the wall is a giant framed black-and-white photo of a black woman, her back to us, pouring out water from a metal pitcher from one hand, in the other a plastic jug.

I read the script underneath: She saw him disappear by the river. They asked her to tell what happened, only to discount her memory.

The arresting simplicity draws me in by the collar. So many messages, so gripping, and so . . . spot on.

“It’s called Waterbearer by Lorna Simpson. I think my mom studied her in college or something. She loves art. Got stuff all over the house, but this one is my favorite.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I ain’t a black woman or nothing, but I guess I kinda get it. No one ever believes y’all.”

A nerve is plucked like a violin string, the note ringing in my ear.

“Hey, you want to watch a movie or something?” I ask, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“Sure! We can catch up on some Love and Hip Hop.”

“Cool!”

We kick it in his giant movie-theater-style den, complete with a large projector screen and reclining leather seats. I wait at least fifteen minutes before standing up.

“Uh, bathroom? Lady part problems.”

His eyes widen. “Ohhhhh sure, straight down the hall.”

In the bathroom, I turn on the faucet, crack the door open and creep past the den, using the plants as cover. I race down the hall, into the master bedroom, and trip over a tiger rug, stubbing my toe on a step stool.

“Shit,” I whisper, biting a fist to suck in the pain, then hobble into the walk-in closet. Need to move fast.

I dig through the drawers, through all his pants pockets, blazers, shoes, socks, then move to the wife’s side of the closet, her pants, her millions of shoes, her jewelry box. Nothing.

Derrick’s voice booms behind me. “Yo, Chant!”

I whip around with a yelp. The room is empty, door still shut. I’m alone. Am I hearing things?

“Intercom system on the wall,” he says, his voice muffled with static. “Press talk.”

Intercom? I scan and rush across the room, to a box by the door, still gripping one of his mom’s sweaters. Holding my breath, I stab the talk button and croak out a “Hello?”

Silence. More silence. Wait, can he tell I’m answering from his parents’ room? Is he coming to look for me? Oh God . . .

“Hey, my bad,” Derrick says. “Pops just text me, trying to roll through. Anyway, gonna order some Chinese food. You want anything?”

My brain clicks through its frozen gears. “Um, yeah. Shrimp lo mein. Please?”

“You ok? Need anything?”

“I’m good,” I squeak, heart thumping. “Be right there.”

Knees giving out, I collapse against the wall. Chinese food will buy me at least three extra minutes. The watch has to be here.