Page 128 of Grown

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.