by Erica Hilton
Melanie was still hanging on to life by a thread. Surprisingly, the preppy bitch was tougher than Charlie had assumed. Now it was time for Charlie to clean up her mess. Melanie was a liability and Charlie couldn’t afford to leave behind any witnesses. She went over to where Melanie was lying bound on the floor and placed a plastic bag over the girl’s head. She coldheartedly finished what she started by bashing the girl’s skull in with the hammer. It was brutal. For good measure, Charlie held a pillow over her face for a few minutes. Melanie Jones was dead.
When Charlie emerged from the bedroom, Claire was fully dressed and methodically cleaning the apartment. Charlie didn’t want her sister to see the body, so she closed the bedroom door. They locked eyes, but they didn’t speak. Claire didn’t want to know what happened to Melanie inside the bedroom. She expected the worst. Everything felt still inside there.
Charlie grabbed two trash bags and went back into the bedroom. She started tossing essentials and anything worth taking into the bags—designer bags, jewelry, shoes, and most importantly, the money. She also tossed the linens into trash bags. Now they had more bags than they had come with, and it was becoming a burden for them. How were they going to drag all these bags out of the building without looking suspicious?
With the apartment thoroughly cleaned out, it was time to make their escape. Claire knew in her heart that they would eventually get caught. Melanie wasn’t some loser or some bum that you can easily make disappear. She had a lot going for her, and the detectives assigned to the case would be zealous in solving her murder. She was upset with Charlie for getting her mixed up in murder and robbery but, as usual, she didn’t say anything.
Charlie grabbed two baseball caps and two light jackets that belonged to Melanie. She and Claire both tucked their distinguishing red hair under the baseball caps, and then put on the largest pairs of sunglasses that Melanie owned. They painted their lips with dark colored lipstick and even gave themselves exaggerated eyebrows and moles. It was time to leave in their disguise.
“Look, we need to be careful and on point. I’ll start taking the bags down the stairwell and out the backdoor so we won’t be seen,” said Charlie. “It’s still early, so hopefully we won’t run into many people. You wait a few minutes and then bring the rest.”
Claire nodded, her stomach doing somersaults.
Charlie grabbed three full trash bags and acted like she had the strength of five men. She was determined to not get caught and not be seen. She left the apartment leaving Claire behind. The only thing to do was to be careful, smart, and patient.
It didn’t take long for them to remove the bags. They moved with urgency to leave the area. Before they knew it, they were outside waiting for the Uber Charlie had arranged from Melanie’s phone to show up. When their ride arrived, they sprung into action, asking the driver to pop the trunk. They quickly tossed the garbage bags in the trunk and climbed into the backseat. Charlie told him their destination.
“We’re going to Harlem.”
The Amsterdam Houses was a place that the sisters weren’t connected to. Once there, Charlie took the trash bags filled with their clothes and tossed them into the nearest dumpster, along with the bag containing the linens from Melanie’s apartment. Claire objected, but Charlie had to remind her that Bacardi had kept all their good shit and all that was in those bags was junk.
Charlie had seen too many bitches living better than her—the women she helped rob and kill with God and Fingers, her sister Chanel, and now this bitch Melanie. Charlie hated to see others having more than her. She vowed that from today on out, she would be upgrading her life.
With two bags left in their possession, mostly containing Melanie’s things and the money, the girls walked to the nearest train station and took the A train to 125th Street. There, on the busy street lined with fashion boutiques, nail shops, fast food places, and more street merchants than you could count, they purchased two extra large suitcases on wheels.
“We need to get right,” Charlie told Claire, walking quickly with the bag in one hand and rolling one of the suitcases with the other. “C’mon.”
Claire followed behind her sister like a stray puppy. She was terrified and jumpy, and her eyes darted all over the place. She felt that a swarm of cops was going to swoop down on them and haul them away at any moment.
The sisters came to a stop on a side block with strangers coming and going. Quickly, Charlie packed the suitcases and they discarded their baseball caps and shades in a nearby trash can and wiped off their makeup. Charlie exhaled, feeling confident that they were going to get away with murder. So far everything was going smoothly, and as long as Claire didn’t freak out, they were on the right path to a new life.
“Now we need to find a place to stay,” said Charlie.
***
Charlie booked them a room for a week. It was a decent hotel room in Midtown Manhattan, where they could relax and get their minds right.
Claire hopped into the shower and lingered under the hot water for what felt like forever. She wanted to wash away everything that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours. She wanted to scrub away her sins. What have I gotten myself into? she kept asking herself. It was a nightmare that she couldn’t wake up from.
After stepping out of the shower and toweling off, Claire stared at herself in the foggy bathroom mirror. She didn’t like what was staring back at her. Out of the blue, she started to cry.
Who is Charlie? she thought. Her sister was a lunatic. She had seen that firsthand this morning. There was no defending Charlie anymore—the bitch was pure evil. She had set Chanel up, and Mateo was shot in the head and nearly died. Now Melanie. Charlie had made her an accessory to first-degree murder. Melanie was her friend—sort of. And even if she wasn’t, she didn’t deserve to die like that. All the layers of Charlie were being revealed. She had been robbing and killing people all along. Claire deduced that all those gifts Charlie had brought home were there because someone had died. The revelation of her sister’s wicked lifestyle hit her like a Mack truck, and she started to slip into a deep depression again.
That night, Charlie tried to get her sister to cheer up and stop moping and crying, but Claire couldn’t stop. She was afraid, and she felt betrayed. She wouldn’t talk. She wouldn’t eat. She would only sit there and weep and sleep. There wasn’t anything Charlie could do to cheer her sister up. She couldn’t bring her back from where she had come from and what she had seen—the devil and almost hell itself.
The next day, Charlie left Claire alone in the hotel room to go out and make some moves. She wanted to unload the stolen merchandise and put the money in a safe place. It was risky walking around the city with $80,000. Plus, she was tired of hearing her sister’s whining and seeing her cry and stare off into space.
Charlie hoped Claire didn’t become a weak link. Charlie saw an opportunity and she decided to take it. If she hadn’t, they would be broke and homeless, and most likely staying at a shelter or sleeping on park benches. There was no way Charlie was going to go down that miserable road. Besides, she had just killed God, so in her mind, she had nothing to lose and nearly $80,000 to gain.
There was one thing that puzzled her about God, though. Why hadn’t the streets heard about his murder yet? It had been days since Kym was arrested, yet, nothing—no word on the streets about his death.
She didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Chapter Six
Pyro stepped out of the elevator at 4am and approached his apartment. He was coming from an old flame’s place after a heated night of fucking and sucking on each other. While lying in Lisa’s bed, Pyro couldn’t stop thinking about leaving Chanel alone for a week when he should be there guarding over her. He got dressed and left Lisa’s place in the middle of the night. Lisa was left puzzled by his action.
At first, Pyro thought he was doing Chanel a favor by sleeping over with his f
emales. He wanted to give her some space and he wanted her to feel at home at his apartment. He also knew to set firm boundaries when he was there with Chanel. He would never come out of his bedroom unless he was fully dressed, and he would go out of his way to make her feel comfortable and, most importantly, safe. Pyro also knew to keep Chanel from seeing the shadier side of things—of him; drugs and guns. He figured she had probably heard stories, but that was all he wanted her to hear. Mateo did his best to keep his woman out of that life, so who was Pyro to expose her to what his friend fought to keep her away from?
When he entered his apartment, everything seemed quiet and still—maybe too still.
“Chanel?” he called out.
She didn’t answer him.
“Chanel, where you at?” he called out again.
Still, there was no response. He figured she was sleeping, but he grew slightly nervous and removed his gun from his hip. He started to feel guilty for leaving her alone for so long. Pyro didn’t want to crowd her, but now he questioned if his absence made her feel more uncomfortable and more afraid.
Cautiously, with his gun parallel to his side, he advanced toward the second bedroom and carefully peeked inside. He sighed with relief to see Chanel sleeping in the bed under the covers and looking peaceful. She was even snoring. She had endured some long, tiresome, and trying days, and it was good to see her sleeping like a baby.
Pyro faintly grinned and closed her bedroom door. He went into his own bedroom to get undressed and to stay the night. This was going to be his first night sleeping in his own bed since Chanel had moved in. Sleep was desperately calling his name. Pyro climbed into his comfy, large bed wearing only his boxers, and he was fast asleep a minute later.
A few hours later, Pyro heard a slight tap at his bedroom door. Groggily, he called out, “Who?” even though he knew the answer.
“Hey, it’s me. Good morning. I’m glad to see you’re home. I just wanted to let you know that I’m cooking breakfast for us,” she said sweetly.
He wasn’t a breakfast type of dude. The only reason his fridge was stocked was for Chanel.
“I’m not hungry,” he shouted back.
“C’mon, everybody loves breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day,” she said.
“Just go away!” he yelled, pulling the covers over his head.
Chanel sighed and left from his door. It was easy to see that he wasn’t a morning person. In the kitchen, she made herself pancakes with crispy bacon and peppermint tea. She sighed while sitting at the kitchen table. Pyro finally spent the night at his apartment and she still felt alone there.
He slept for ten hours and woke up to the late afternoon sun seeping through his bedroom window. He emerged from his bedroom fully dressed to a very clean apartment and a downtrodden Chanel. She had already been to visit Mateo, and now she was sitting in the living room watching HGTV. Noticing Pyro was awake and dressed, she faintly smiled at him and he realized that she was lonely.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Pyro stood in front of her, looking handsome in his street clothes.
Seeing him fully dressed, she then asked him, “Are you gonna be back for dinner?”
Dinner? Pyro survived on protein shakes, vegetable smoothies, and fast food. Having someone cook him dinner wasn’t in his program. But the cheerless look on Chanel’s face made him rethink leaving so abruptly.
“You know what? I got time to chill,” he said, pulling off his hoodie and kicking off his Yeezys.
“I thought you were leaving?”
“Nah. I’m in no rush.” Pyro plopped down on the couch quite close to Chanel and got comfortable.
Chanel moved over, widening the space between them, and replied, “You don’t have to stay because of me, Pyro. I’ll be okay.”
“I know. But I wanna stay. It’s cool.”
He decided to hang out with her for a while. She was watching an episode of House Hunters, the beach house edition.
“You like this show, huh?” he said.
“Yeah. It’s fun to watch rich people live their lives so freely and spend money on something like a summer home on the beach. Coming from the projects, we can’t even fathom that. But hey, if you got it, you got it, and why not spend it on what makes you happy?” She shrugged.
“I feel you.”
Chanel asked him, “I’m curious. What makes you happy, Pyro?”
“Making money,” he replied.
She chuckled. “And that’s it?”
“What else?”
She didn’t push any further. Pyro was an intriguing guy. He kept to himself, kept a low profile, was extremely clean, and he was a loyal friend. Chanel knew there were demons deep inside of him and he had a violent past, but overall, he was a nice guy.
They continued to watch the show and chitchat a bit. It didn’t take long for Pyro to become somewhat captivated by watching families, mostly white, searching for a new home with the assistance of a real estate agent.
“Have you ever thought about buying a house?” she asked.
“Nah, not really.”
“It would be a good investment for your future.”
“I guess. But I live alone, so who would I buy a house for? Shit, I do fine living in a nice apartment and doing me. A nigga like me ain’t tryin’ to be boo’d up.” He laughed.
When he smiled Chanel realized how large and perfectly round his eyes were. He had innocent, pronounced eyes that were deceptive, whereas Mateo’s eyes were small, slightly slanted, and sexy.
“You wanna be a bachelor all your life?”
“Right now, I’m not really looking. But if something right comes along, I might rethink it.”
She smiled. “Someone will, Pyro. You’re a nice guy—handsome too. You’ll make some woman very happy.”
“Right now, I’m trying to make all of them happy as long as they’re making me happy,” he joked.
“You’re so stupid,” Chanel giggled.
Pyro sat for two hours watching four episodes of House Hunters, and that was enough for him. It was time to go. He stood up to leave, and Chanel right away asked him, “When are you coming back?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”
She sighed. “This apartment is still new to me, and some nights I get scared.”
He moved closer to her with a compassionate look on his face. He didn’t want her to be scared. He sat next to her briefly and said, “Chanel, you good here. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here. Believe me; I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You’re right. I just need to get my nerves in check.”
She said it, but he knew that apprehension still swirled inside of her from being alone at night. Having gone through what she went through, Pyro understood. She needed time to heal and to cope.
“Look, from now on I’ll make it back at night to make you feel safer,” he said.
She smiled.
As promised, Pyro made it home that night and slept in his own bed, but he also brought some female company back with him. Chanel didn’t mind. She wasn’t alone, and that was all that mattered to her.
Over the next several days, Chanel figured out that Pyro was a player. His bed was a revolving door. He had about four main women who all thought they were “the one” for him. The one thing the girls had in common with each other was that they all hated that Chanel was staying with their man, and they treated her with disrespect out of earshot of Pyro. They didn’t care that she was Mateo’s woman. They wanted the bitch gone.
Chapter Seven
Stern banging on your apartment door is a familiar yet frightening sound when black and living in the ghetto. There was always something happening in the projects that brought the NYPD with either questions or warrant
s.
Bacardi and Butch were lounging in the bedroom when they heard that stern banging. Bacardi jumped out of bed and put on a robe to see who was knocking like they were the police. Maybe it is the police, she thought. If so, she and Butch hadn’t done shit—not yet. They both guessed that this was somehow connected to the fight they’d had with their daughters.
While Bacardi marched toward the door, tying her robe together, she griped, “I swear, Butch, if those bitches pressed charges on us, I’ma fuck them up fo’ real this time.”
She swung the door open to see two plainclothes detectives standing in the hallway. They immediately flashed their New Jersey badges and announced who they were.
“I’m Detective Meroe, and this is my partner, Detective Flinch. We’re here to ask you some questions.”
Bacardi stood there confused. “What kind of questions?”
“Can we come in?” asked Detective Flinch.
She wanted to tell him no—hell fuckin’ no—but she relented and ushered them into her home.
“What’s this about, detectives?” she asked.
By now, Butch had joined her in the living room. Seeing the detectives made him tense.
“Sorry to bother you, but we have a victim in the morgue who was murdered a couple weeks ago in New Jersey. His name is Godfrey Williams, and we need someone to formally identify his body. From our understanding, this is his last known address,” said Detective Meroe.
Bacardi and Butch were shocked. God was dead?
“He’s dead?” Bacardi asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You said murdered?”
“There seems to have been some kind of domestic dispute, and we have his girlfriend detained on Rikers Island until her next bail hearing,” Flinch answered.
Girlfriend? “What girlfriend?” Bacardi asked.
“Um . . . a Kymberly Stephens.”
