Me: Gotta go. Tristan needs help carrying groceries in.
Quinton: Tell him that’s the man’s job.
Me: I would but he’s been sick.
Quinton: Okay, call ya tonight?
Me: Aren’t u sick of me yet?
Quinton: No way. Never.
Me: Okay, talk to ya later :)
I set my phone down and get up from the sofa to go over to the foyer and help Tristan pick up the spilled groceries. “I still think you should get that cough checked out,” I tell him as I bend over to pick up a can of soup that rolled out of one of the bags.
He leans against the wall, covering his mouth with his hand, and hacks into it. “It’s just a cough,” he says, but he looks pallid.
“Yeah, but you’ve had it for over a month now.” I put the soup can down on the counter and then start carrying the bags into the kitchen. “Coughs don’t normally stick around for a month.”
“I’m fine,” he insists after his coughing settles. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and bends over to pick up the remaining bag, but then quickly puts his hand against the wall to brace himself, like he’s dizzy and about to fall over.
“Jesus, are you okay?” I ask, rushing over to him.
He nods, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and suddenly I notice how damp his skin is. “Yeah, I think I just need to get some rest. It’s been nothing but school and work nonstop for the last couple of weeks and I’m feeling drained.”
“Go lay down and I’ll make you some soup,” I tell him, and he gladly obliges, letting go of the wall and trudging toward his room.
I go into the kitchen with the bags of groceries. There are cupboards on both sides and enough room between them for one person, barely, and I end up banging some of the bags on the edges of the counter. One snags on the handle of a drawer and rips open. Items fall out and scatter all over the floor. A two-liter of soda ends up exploding. Cursing, I pick up the spraying bottle and put it into the sink, then grab some paper towels and start cleaning up the floor. After I wipe it up, then mop away the stickiness, I’ve started to unpack the groceries when my phone rings. I hurry over to the coffee table and pick it up, confused by the unknown number on the screen. I reluctantly answer it as I make my way back over to the kitchen.
“Hello,” I say, taking cans of soup from a bag.
“Hey.” A woman’s voice comes through from the other end that sounds familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Is this Nova… um… Reed?”
“Yeah.” I stack a soup can in the cupboard and then turn around and lean against the counter. “Who is this?”
“It’s Nichelle Pierce, Delilah’s mom.” She pauses like she’s waiting for me to say something to her.
I’m not sure what to say, though. She’s the one who called me and I’ve met the woman maybe three or four times, when Delilah and I would have to go to her house to get something, back when we were seniors in high school and still lived at home. For the most part, though, Delilah hated going to her house, because she said her mother made her feel insignificant.
“I don’t really know how to say this,” she finally says, sounding annoyed. “So I’m just going to come out and say it… Delilah’s missing.”
I’m not surprised at all, considering what went on with Quinton, who was roommates with Delilah before, and how we couldn’t find him for months. “Have you checked around Vegas, by chance?”
“Yeah, I have, but I haven’t found any sign of her…” She clears her throat. “Look, I’m really worried about her and I didn’t know who else to call, since I don’t know any of her other friends. Have you heard from her at all or do you know where she might be?”
“I haven’t,” I tell her, wondering if I should tell her about the last time I saw Delilah in Vegas. What a mess she was. How crazy her boyfriend Dylan was acting. How her life was full of drugs and drug deals gone bad. “Not since about June.”
“Did she say anything about going anywhere at all when you saw her?” she asks. “The last time I talked to her was about a year or so ago and all I know is she was going to Vegas to live her life or whatever.”
“Honestly, I didn’t talk to her very much when I saw her,” I say, and then I cautiously add, “She was a little… out of it, though, and her boyfriend seemed pretty… strange.”
“Strange how?”
“I don’t know…” I hope she’s not going to take what I say next badly. Sometimes parents have issues with hearing that their child’s gotten into drugs. “They were both into drugs and I think Dylan was a little violent with her.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says with zero shock in her voice. “He always did seem to fly off the handle over the stupidest things.”
I shake my head, irritated that she doesn’t seem to care about her own daughter. Delilah and I might not have left our friendship on a good note, but there was a point when we were close and she helped me through some hard times in her own crazy way.
“That’s all I know about her,” I tell Nichelle. “Well, that and the apartment she was living in with Tristan and Quinton burned down, but I don’t think anyone was hurt.”
“I didn’t know that.” She seems mildly shocked. “Do you happen to know the address of the place she was staying at… the one that burned down?”
“I don’t remember it, but if you give me a minute I can maybe find out.” I walk out of the kitchen and head for Tristan’s room.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
“No problem.” I move the phone away from my ear and cover it with my hand as I nudge Tristan’s ajar door open with my elbow and step inside.
He’s curled up in his bed with a blanket over him, his head nuzzled into his pillow. I can hear him breathing softly as I walk over to his bedside and I’m fairly sure he’s asleep. I feel bad for waking him, but he’s the only person, besides Quinton, I can think to get the address from.
“Tristan,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir, so I tap him on the shoulder with my finger. “Hey, I have a question for you.”
He rolls over to his back as his eyelids flutter open and he blinks around dazedly. “What are you doing in here?” he asks in a hoarse voice.
“I need the address to your old apartment in Vegas.”