Grown(66)

But what if his dad drops by?

Quickly, I rummage through hampers, dressers, and suitcases. Just as I’m about to give up, I spot another set of drawers by the nightstand. First one, papers. Second one, boxers. I scoop them to the side, finger flicking against something hard. I yank the drawer out farther.

Korey’s watch ticks back at me.

With a tissue off the nightstand, I grab the watch just as the door swings open.

“What are you doing?”

Derrick’s mouth hangs open, stunned to silence, and I’m momentarily relieved it’s him and not Richie. He stares at the watch dangling in my hand, then at me.

“Derrick . . . it’s not what you think . . .”

As I explain everything, the color drains from his face. He blinks twice and shakes his head.

“Nah. Pops and Korey . . . they’ve known each other forever. Korey is like a little brother to him! He wouldn’t do that.”

“He would for Jessica. He would do anything for her. You told me that.”

A coating of realization melts into his skin, weighing him down. He leans on the door for support.

“Look,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to call the cops . . . so I think you should just leave whatever it is you found and go.”

“But, Derrick, I need this watch. I need to prove that it wasn’t me!”

“So you’re gonna set up my pops instead?”

“No, no. Not set up . . . I saw Korey wearing it.”

His face darkens. “And no one is going to believe you.”

Cold sweat trickles down my back. “Derrick, I thought you were my friend.”

“Put the watch down, Enchanted,” he says, his voice clipped. “Even if you did take it, it wouldn’t be enough to save you. He can just say Korey gave it to him. He was with him that day—easy alibi.”

The key to freedom ticks in my hand.

“But I . . .”

“It’s over, Enchanted. Don’t pull my pops down with you.”

In an instant, I know: no matter what I say, Derrick will always pick his father over me. I drop the watch. Along with my hopes.

“He’s still my dad,” he says to the floor as I pass. “Wouldn’t you do anything to save your family?”

I give him one last look before heading out.

Derrick. Another apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree.





Chapter 84


How to Watch the Sun Rise




AN OPEN LETTER FROM KA

The man publicly known as Korey Fields sold twenty million albums, toured around the world, and accumulated hundreds of millions of plays on radio and streaming services. During his rise to superstardom, he was also sued by at least four women for sexual misconduct, statutory rape, aggravated assault, unlawful restraint, and providing illegal drugs to minors in at least three different states.

We call on corporations with ties to Korey Fields’s estate to insist on protecting and believing black women by proceeding with the investigation into his illegal actions. Together, let’s end the devaluing of black girls and women.

We stand with Enchanted Jones and all the other women who have been assaulted by Korey Fields.

If you have been a victim of Korey Fields’s abuse, please reach out to our organization. You are not alone.

—Korey Anonymous

Grandma always told me the sun rises in the east, sets in the west. I settled on a bench by the East River, thinking I would watch the sun rise. But the direction on the river isn’t quite right. Still, it’s a nice place to be during my last night/morning of freedom.

Mom must be worried sick, and Daddy is probably combing the streets looking for me, their phone calls endless. But I needed a moment to think. To be still. To read that open letter over and over. I’m not alone, it says. There were others.

Except I’m the only one going to prison. For something I didn’t do, and there is nothing I can do about it. And how is it even possible for there to be so many? Korey couldn’t have been in love with all of them. He couldn’t have treated us all the same.

Could he?

I pull the crinkled note from my wallet.

Meet at 421 Broadway for a KA meeting. Friday, 10 a.m. There are others.

You’re not alone.

Keeping my hoodie up, I enter a run-down office building in the thick of Chinatown, among the fruit stands and meat markets, and check the time. My phone is at five percent.

Ten a.m. The plan was to be at the police station two hours ago. But if I walk into that station, who knows if I’ll ever know the full story. I have to take this last chance. Maybe someone has information on Jessica or Richie. Something that can help me.

The hallway is full of trash bags and dusty, discarded office furniture. The door to suite 8M squeaks as I shove it open. The room is dank and dark, blinds shut tight.

“You came!”

The woman who snuck up on me at the press conference is different today. Or maybe just herself—long blond streaky hair, tattoos up her arms, and a lip piercing.

“Yeah. But I can’t stay long,” I say, weary. “I . . . have to turn myself in today.”

She nods. “I heard. I’m Cindy. Nice to officially meet you. This is Dawn, one of our private investigators.”

Dawn is a cinnamon-skinned woman with thin bronze dreads, muscles pulsing through her forearms.