Chapter Thirty
Sin
Paranoid
“Why haven’t you replied to my text?” I demand when my brother finally answers his phone. “I sent it half an hour ago.”
“Because I haven’t seen it. I’ve been peeling onions for this nonsensical lunch Ma is throwing.”
I snicker at his characterization. “What’s the occasion?” I turn around in front of my floor-length mirror and run a critical eye down the line of my back and my ass.
“She wants to show off the new deck and hot tub.” He does a perfect imitation of the aggressively British accent my mother puts on in front of company.
I cackle. If keeping up appearances was an Olympic sport, our dear mother would be a gold medalist.
“It’s not funny,” he says through his own laughter. “I can’t wait to leave, too.”
I hear myself in his pity-pocked griping, and I say what I wish someone had said to me back then.
“I feel your pain. It sucks not being able to prioritize yourself. Your time is coming. But right now…” I let out a deep breath and turn back to the mirror.
“Mine is running out. I need your help. Please, Don?”
“Begging doesn’t suit you. Hold on.”
“Thank you. But can you hurry? I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”
“Damn. Can a man wash his hands first? I swear, the three of you act like I’m your house boy.”
“Adonis, stop complaining,” I snap. “I have an important event for work and you’re the only person I trust to tell me the truth.”
“You don’t act like it, but I’m glad you appreciate my gifts. Let me see what you sent.”
I bite my lip to hold back my growl of impatience and wait for him to finish.
“Ohhh. I see. This is…different for you,” he finally says.
“Different good or different bad?” I ask, fretting now.
“Very good. Are you going on a date? I’ve never seen you wear anything like this to work.”
“I’m going to a private fundraiser and I want to make a certain man swallow his tongue when he sees me.”
“In that dress, he’ll probably swallow yours, too. Ten out of ten.”
I shake my hips in triumph. “Oh thank fuck. I don’t have time to change.” I run to the closet to grab my shoes.
“What about the rest of you?”
“I got my makeup done and I’m wearing a pair of black sling back Aquazzura’s.”
“Can’t wait to find out who was worth this effort.”
“I’m worth the effort. He’s just collateral damage,” I quip.
The crunch of wheels in my driveway makes my heart skip a beat “Oh shit, hold on. I think the car is here.”
“You hired a car?”
“Something like that.”
I pull back the long white curtain covering my living room window and peer outside and gawk at the black Rolls Royce pulling to a stop in my driveway.
“Never mind. Just someone turning around.”
I walk back to the mirror, grab my lip gloss out of my purse to touch it up. God, my makeup looks amazing. Kwame may not be thinking about kissing me tonight, but I’ll make sure he thinks about it so much he chokes.
Just a little.
The slam of a car door wipes the self-satisfied smile of my face. I drop the lip gloss and hustle back to the window.
“Woah.” I gawk at the tall man in a dark suit with a monochromatic black shirt, tie and gloves. From here he could be the man who held a gun in my face. My blood runs cold, and the phone slips out of my hand.
The clatter shakes me out of my fear frozen state and I pick up my phone. “Hey, I have to go.”
“What happened?”
“I dropped the phone.” I hit the wall safe with my palm and it springs open. I pull out the heavy black pistol I’ve only taken out for a couple of trips to the practice range. I check the clip but keep the safety on.
“I’ve really got go, Adonis. I’ll call you back.”
“You better or I’ll be on my way over there to find you.”
“Love you, bye,” I add speaking over his protest.
I disconnect the call and with trembling hands open my phone’s keypad and key in 9-1-1. I crouch under my window, my heart and mind racing.
What are the chances that I’d be burgled at home twice in one year in two different cities.
The short, sharp knock on my front door almost makes me pee myself. The are lights on everywhere, but if I’m quiet maybe he’ll think I’m not here and leave.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down, ready to decline the call.
It’s Kwame. I decline the call and send him a text.
“Sorry I can’t talk. Are you on your way?”
“My driver just arrived.”
My heart sinks. “Tell him to circle the block. I’m not ready.”
The man knocks again and irritation and fear spike at the same time. “There’s someone at my door. A strange car parked in my driveway. I think I need to call the police.”
“He’s at the door knocking. Tall, light-skinned guy with short dark hair. I’ll let him know you need more time.”
My body sags in relief. Tears sting my eyes and then I realize. “You’re not in the car?” I text him back.
My phone rings again and I answer on the first ring. “Hey sorry about that. Where are you?”
“Sin, hi. I got pulled into a meeting unexpectedly. I’m going to be late so I sent the car ahead. Is everything okay?” His voice is hushed.
“Of course. I just… wasn’t expecting such a fancy ride,” I quip.
“Would you like to arrive in something else? I can arrange it.”
“No, it’s great. Better than. Thank you. I’ll be right out. Sorry to keep him waiting.”
“No need to apologize. He’s at your disposal. His name is Ian and you’re in good hands. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He hangs up, and I peer outside at the half-a-million-dollar car in my driveway.
Wow.
What did Mrs. Dixon do for a living?
I put my pistol back in the safe and arm it with my thumb print.
I hate the way it feels in my hand. I hate that I felt like I needed it.
I haven’t been to the practice range since my first round of lessons. My instructor said I’ve got good aim.
I hope I never have to find out if that holds up under pressure.
I smooth a hand down my dress, take one last glimpse in the mirror and grimace at the thin sheen of sweat on my forehead. I grab the handheld fan from my everyday purse and drop it into my clutch. I lift my armpit take a sniff and hurry to answer my door.
“Miss Sackey, good evening,” the driver greets me with a friendly expression on his face that softens his hired hitman look.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Not at all. I am on your time tonight. The car is ready whenever you are.”
“Thank you. Let’s go.”
I follow him down the crumbling walkway that leads from my house to the driveway and remind myself that this is just a temporary stop and that it’s better than moving in with my parents. I text Adonis that it’s all good and climb inside the cool, sleek interior of the car.
I spend the short ride down Sixteenth Street reading through all the notes I’ve made about Ozwald and decide that it’s a good thing Kwame’s not here.
DC is a small town. With this new era of leadership in the executive branch, the nation’s capital has become the place to be for the entire global arts community.
Tonight, African Diaspora—from the United States, almost all of the ECOWAS countries, the Caribbean and South American nations—is out in full force.
I’m convinced that diaspora wars are something that only exist online because I’ve never experienced it in person.
I force my focus back to the reason I’m there.
I see The Wizard for the first time while I’m waiting in line to go through security. I turn my face away when he strides past me. He doesn’t stop to speak with the press gaggle who shout his name, and he sails past the step-and-repeat without being photographed.
I ignore the huffs of indignation as I skip to the front of the line and hand my purse to the security man with a smile and a fifty-dollar bill that I’ll miss very much.
I get in just as he and another man break off from his larger entourage to head away from the event hall and up the escalator.
I fish my compact out of my purse and use the mirror to watch. I wait for them to step off before I follow.
It’s impossible not to be in awe of the stunning design of the newest of the Smithsonian museums.
The lights from outside sift through the tiny holes casting patterned, shadows over the entryway. It’s a magical display that’s enough to make me forget why I’m here.
I’m jolted back to reality by the rough grasp of a leathered clad hand around my wrist.
“What do you want?” The man who had been with Annan glares down at me.
Panic blinds me for me a moment before my training kicks in. I glare up at him.
“I’m looking for the bathroom.” I yank my wrist away out of his grasp.
“You passed it.” He points in the direction we’ve just come from.
I look in the direction he’s pointing and turn back with a sheepish grimace on my face. “Oh, I didn’t see it.”
His expression doesn’t soften. “Now you do. Be on your way.”
“Fine. No need to be rude.”
I turn slowly, craning my neck over his shoulder as I do and spot Ozwald stopped a few feet away.
He’s talking to a woman whose face is obscured by decorative topiary. I don’t need a full visual or more than the momentary glimpse my slow rotation affords to know who it is.
That collarbone-skimming perfectly blunt bob is a dead giveaway.
They appear to be having an unremarkable exchange. Until she leans forward to press an air kiss to his cheek and he lowers his head to press his nose to her throat for the briefest second.
“What are you waiting for?” the man asks me, and this time, he pulls his jacket back to reveal a shoulder holster.
My heart leaps in my throat.
“Nothing. I’m just admiring the art. Are you museum security or something?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. You’re not allowed to be here. Leave. Now,” he says through barely moving lips.
“Copy that,” I say with a mock salute before I turn on my heel and get the hell out of there.