Grown(70)

Sean: How?

Aisha: Maybe we can get a chain going with the other chapters. Ask around. Prove that he got, like, a pattern of doing fucked up shit.

Sean: I met this chick from the Atlanta chapter who said Korey used to hang out around her high school and pick up girls.

Malika: What? Why didn’t you say anything?

Sean: IDK. Didn’t seem important!

Aisha: Oh God! This girl from the Charlotte chapter told me the same thing. Thought she was just making it up to get closer to Enchanted!

Malika: So he’s hanging around high schools? That’s . . . nasty.

Aisha: We gotta tell someone!

Sean: Yo I’m telling my dad right now.

Aisha: We need to be looking for her! She’s family!

Sean: Word!

Aisha: I’m calling Shea! Maybe we can get other chapters to go out and search for her if we tell them the whole story.

Malika: I feel so fucked up.

Sean: Ain’t your fault. We all thought the same thing!

Creighton: YOOOOO!

Sean: Yo, where you been?

Creighton: You know how they were saying she was crazy and shit?

Aisha: Yeah.

Creighton: I think I found her friend.

Malika: What are you talking about?

Creighton: That friend . . . Gabriela or something like that. I think I found her!

Aisha: Where!

Creighton: At the White Plains Galleria. Except her name ain’t Gabriela.





Chapter 87


How to Gut a Fish




Outside the building is a mountain of flowers, teddy bears, posters, and candles, stretching from the door to the corner, a whole city block. Police barricades surround the entrance. Someone set up a Bluetooth speaker playing a steady stream of Korey’s music. A few loyal fans camp on the curb, still teary-eyed.

Deep in the shadows across the street, I watch three officers patrol the quiet block. Through the glass doors, at the front desk, two doormen sit in their black-and-gold uniforms. I recognize them.

I wonder if they’ll recognize me.

Down the block, a car whips around the corner, swerving, its wheels screeching before crashing directly into the barricade memorial, the bears cushioning the wall.

Fans are up on their feet, shouting questions. The officers run over.

Gab rolls down her window, flailing her arms.

“Help! Help, please.”

One of the doormen steps outside, holding the door open to peer down the block, as the other doorman makes a call.

That’s when I sprint across the street, hop over the fence, and slide past, grabbing the keycard hanging on his belt.

“Hey! Hey! Stop!”

Stunned, the other doorman stumbles to his feet, but I’ve already raced past him.

“Hey! Over here!” The doorman screams outside, trying to flag the cops down.

Running down the hall, I pass the first set of elevators, as doorman number two gives chase.

“Stop right there!”

Walkie static sings. “All units . . . suspect on premises!”

I slip on the marble tile, knee connecting with the floor, the pain a sucker punch. I swipe the keycard and enter the pool room.

“Hey! Hey!” doorman number two yells. I can feel him on my heels as my run becomes a limp.

I duck, stepping right then left, a quick dance.

“AHHHH!” He tumbles into the pool.

I hobble through the next door, to the elevator near the back entrance. The one Korey took me down during our swim lesson.

Keycard swipe. Up to the twelfth floor, the studio.

The elevator opens and I run through the back hallway to a door leading to the penthouse.

Locked.

“Shit,” I mutter, racing to the front desk, and glance at the elevator floor indicator. It’s still sitting in the lobby. But within seconds, it starts making its way up.

Second floor.

There are a dozen desk drawers. A key has to be somewhere. Frantically, I rummage.

Fourth floor.

My knee is throbbing. Still no key. Desperate to pry the door open, I grab a pair of scissors.

Fifth floor.

The bloodred light on floor five almost makes my heart stop. I rush into the dark studio, the place reeking of our memories. More drawers. Nothing but papers.

Sixth floor.

“Come on, come on,” I whimper, clawing through stacks of music sheets. I rip the drawers out, tossing them onto the floor.

Eighth floor.

Stuck to the bottom of the last drawer is a gray key fob.

Tenth Floor.

Swipe.

I burst into the penthouse, release the breath I’ve been holding just as keys jingle at the front door. More walkie static.

“Shit . . .” I gasp, and slice through the caution tape, jumping over police markers . . . Melissa still on the floor where I left her.

The front door flies open.

“Freeze!”

“She’s got a knife!”

I slam the bedroom door behind me, clutching the scissors to my chest. Throat burning, lungs fried.

“All units, suspect has locked herself in her room!”

The room smells stale. The blood has dried light pink on the walls. The largest puddle near the bed, spilled buckets of beet juice.

Pounding on the door. More voices.

Flounder is on the dresser, the exact spot Korey placed him, untouched and unbothered.