7. Alisha #3
“Alisha, can you hand me that pink polish?” Nia asked from the next station over. I grabbed it automatically without even looking up from my client’s nails.
“Here.”
“Thank you boo.”
I nodded while shaping the acrylic carefully. The shop stayed loud around me, women laughing, phones ringing. Somebody arguing with their baby daddy on speakerphone near the dryers. It was regular Detroit beauty shop chaos.
Until suddenly the front door opened and I looked up automatically.
And that’s when I saw a tall guy with a dark gray suit, clean cut with a serious face.
He stood near the entrance scanning the shop calmly.
He didn’t look like anybody’s boyfriend waiting for a pickup either, his energy screamed authority.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked cautiously.
His eyes landed on me instantly.
“Alisha Carter?”
Something about hearing my full name from a stranger made my chest feel tight, I slowly stood up from my chair.
“Yes?”
The entire shop got quieter, not fully silent, but enough for nosey people to start paying attention. The man walked toward me calmly before reaching inside his jacket pocket. Then he flashed an FBI badge. My stomach dropped immediately. Why was the FBI looking for me? I thought to myself.
“Special Agent Brown,” he introduced himself smoothly. “Do you mind if we talk privately for a moment?”
Every eye in the shop landed on me, Nia looked confused as hell and so was I.
“About what?” I asked carefully.
“It won’t take long.”
His voice stayed calm and professional but something about the situation felt wrong immediately. I glanced around the shop awkwardly before nodding slowly.
“Okay.”
Agent Brown stepped aside and then he followed me toward the small office in the back.
And with every step my anxiety kept climbing higher.
The second the office door closed behind us, the air felt heavier.
I sat down slowly behind the desk while Agent Brown stayed standing for a second before finally taking the chair across from me.
Everything about him felt controlled and calculated.
“You own this business?” he asked first.
“Yeah.”
He nodded once. “Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
Small talk but it felt fake, we both knew he wasn’t here to compliment my nail shop. Agent Brown opened a small notebook calmly.
“How long have you been married to Deuce Carter?”
The question caught me off guard a little. “Five years.”
“And how long has he owned Carter Trucking Logistics?”
“About seven.”
He nodded again while jotting something down then his eyes lifted back to mine.
“Would you say your husband travels often for business?”
“I guess,” I answered carefully. “Why?”
“We’re conducting an investigation.”
“Investigation into what?” I asked.
Agent Brown stayed calm.
“Your husband’s trucking company.”
I stared at him for a second trying to process what he just said. Because as far as I knew Deuce had gone all the way legit. He promised me when I got pregnant with Brittany that he was letting that street shit go. Now I’m sitting here getting interrogated by the damn FBI.
“What exactly are you saying?” I asked slowly.
“We believe illegal firearms may be moving through some of your husband’s shipments.”
The room started feeling hot all of a sudden. “That’s impossible,” I said immediately.
Agent Brown watched me carefully, not in a judgmental way, more like he was studying my reaction trying to figure out if I knew something.
“Mrs. Carter,” he said calmly, “have you ever noticed unusual activity surrounding your husband’s business?”
“No.”
“Large unexplained amounts of cash?”
“No.”
“Late-night shipments?”
“He owns a trucking company,” I replied defensively. “Truckers move at night.”
He nodded slightly. “Fair enough.”
I folded my arms tightly trying to keep myself composed, because now my mind was racing.
“Has your husband ever discussed problems with competitors?” Agent Brown continued.
“No.”
“Business partners?”
“No.”
“Warehouse locations?”
“No.”
And with every answer, I started realizing something uncomfortable. I really didn’t know much about Deuce’s business. I trusted him enough not to ask questions. And now sitting here with the FBI in my office that suddenly made me feel stupid.
“You seem surprised,” Agent Brown observed quietly.
“Because I am,” I replied honestly.
He studied me for another second before finally closing the notebook. And something shifted in his expression then, like maybe he realized I genuinely didn’t know anything.
“I understand this may be upsetting,” he said.
Upsetting? My husband was potentially being investigated by the damn FBI. Upsetting felt like an understatement.
“Is Deuce in trouble?” I asked quietly.
Agent Brown stayed professional.
“We’re still gathering information.”
That wasn’t an answer and we both knew it. My hands felt cold suddenly because no matter how calm I tried staying, fear had already started creeping in. Not just fear about the investigation either, I was also afraid of what else I didn’t know.
“If you think of anything unusual,” Agent Brown continued while standing up, “I’d appreciate a phone call.”
Then he slid a business card across the desk toward me. I stared down at it without touching it.
“This is crazy,” I said quietly.
Agent Brown paused near the door before looking back at me.
“Sometimes the people closest to us carry secrets we never expect.”
And for some reason that sentence sat with me.
After he left, I stayed sitting in that office staring at the wall for a minute completely frozen.
Suddenly every weird feeling I’d been having lately felt bigger.
The shop sounded loud again once I walked back out, but now everybody was staring at me. Nia hurried over immediately.
“What the hell was that about?”
I grabbed my phone off my station trying to steady my breathing.
“FBI.”
Her eyes widened instantly. “WHAT?”
“I don’t even know.”
I called Deuce immediately. The phone rang twice before he answered.
“What's up baby?”
“Why was the FBI just at my shop?”
“What?” He yelled.
“An FBI agent just questioned me about your trucking company.”
“What agent?” he asked carefully.
“Agent Brown.”
“Baby, listen to me,” Deuce finally said calmly. “They just fucking with me because I ain’t in the streets.”
I frowned while leaning against my nail station. “What?”
“The Feds,” he continued. “They been trying to build cases on niggas like me for years.”
“What exactly does that mean?” I asked slowly.
“It mean they see a Black man making money and automatically assume it’s dirty.”
“Deuce…They talking about illegal guns.”
“And they don’t got shit,” he replied.
I turned slightly away from the clients trying to listen carefully.
“Then why they questioning me?”
“Because they trying to shake people up,” he explained. “They know my history so they hoping somebody around me says the wrong shit.”
His history… that part wasn’t a lie, before the trucking company, Deuce definitely had street ties, and everybody knew that. But I genuinely thought that part of his life was behind him now.
“You know I went legit,” he continued. “And niggas hate that.”
I closed my eyes briefly trying to calm the anxiety sitting in my chest. Part of me wanted to believe him.
“Why you ain’t tell me they was investigating you?” I asked.
“Because it’s not serious.”
I looked around the shop while Nia pretended not to eavesdrop nearby.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” he replied firmly this time. “Baby, if I was doing something crazy, you think I’d have y’all around it?”
I didn’t think Deuce would intentionally put me and Brittany in danger, at least I hoped not.
“You know how these people move,” he continued. “They see records and assume the worst.”
I exhaled slowly and even though something in my gut still felt unsettled. I let it ride for now, because without proof, what exactly was I supposed to accuse him of?
“Aight,” I said finally.
“You good?”
Not really, but I didn’t say that. “Yeah.”
“I’ll come by the shop later.”
“Mhm.”
Then we hung up. The rest of the afternoon dragged on.
I tried focusing on work but mentally I stayed distracted.
Every little thing kept replaying in my head about Agent Brown’s questions.
The way he looked at me like he knew I was innocent.
The part that bothered me the most was how little I actually knew about my husband’s business.
By the time I finished my last client, my nerves felt completely shot. I needed to talk to somebody.
But I wasn’t about to discuss FBI investigations over the phone.
So instead, I grabbed my purse, locked the shop up, and headed toward Shante’s house.
Detroit traffic crawled slow as hell while the sky darkened overhead.
Rain started drizzling lightly against my windshield while I drove in silence deep in my thoughts.
What if Deuce was lying? What if the FBI really had something on him?
What if I’d been blind this whole time? Every question made my stomach hurt.
By the time I pulled up outside Shante’s house, I already felt emotionally exhausted.
I hurried through the drizzle toward the front porch and knocked twice.
A few seconds later, the door cracked open and immediately my brows pulled together, because Shante looked horrible.
Her face looked pale, eyes tired. Bonnet halfway slipping off her head. Big t-shirt hanging loosely over leggings while she stood there looking drained as hell.
“What the hell wrong with you?” I asked immediately.
She blinked slowly before forcing a weak smile.
“I got the flu.”
“The flu?”
“Mhm.”
“Damn,” I said while trying to step inside.
But instantly she blocked the doorway.
“You probably shouldn’t come in,” she said quickly. “I don’t wanna get you sick.”
I frowned immediately. “Girl move.”
“No for real," she insisted. “I've been throwing up and everything. What did you come over here for anyway?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“The FBI came to my shop today.”
“What?” she asked.
I narrowed my eyes slightly.