Chapter Twenty-Four
Sin
A Vessel of Dreams
I drove straight from The Wizard’s apartment to my parents’ house.
On the way here, my convictions ran the gamut.
I should ignore what I saw in his apartment. Pictures of people wearing what looks like contraband don’t prove anything.
I’m chasing something dangerous, complicated, and very likely to fail.
Investigative journalism is a shark tank, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my career surrounded by people I don’t trust.
And yet… every time I think about what I walked away from, what I gave up on, an intense flare of panic comes to life inside of me.
If I don’t extinguish it quickly, I’m afraid it could consume me.
I sit on the stairs leading from the garage to the kitchen and open the box full of the non-digital research.
“Oh, wow.” There’s a small gold-colored flash drive on top.
I could cry. This is the backup to everything that was on my computer.
I thought it was gone. I tuck it back in the box and pull out the first file.
I pull out the document on top and read it.
“Most of us visit museums when we want to see rare, priceless works of art or ancient artifacts. But the .1% of us who can afford it prefer to have a private audience with the pieces the rest of will only ever see in pictures.
The collection of art and cultural antiquities is worth $50 billion dollars annually.
Most of this occurs in reputable auction houses and private estate sales.
There is a well-known black market for rare paintings, but when it comes cultural artifacts there is a dark and ugly underbelly to the black market that is an open secret in the art world.
The key to stopping it is identifying who is funding it. ”
I’d forgotten how passionately I believed in this project. Not just because I wanted awards and promotions and recognition. I wanted to have an impact that will outlive me.
The way my life crumbled made me think the universe was trying to tell me something. I was convinced my dreams had been a delusion of the grandest scale. I took this job because I thought I was done.
But now…I know his name. I know where he lives. I have those pictures. I can expose him. If I can find a way to get an invite to one of his auctions I could expose them all.
It’s because of people like him that the elephant population is still endangered. He’s the reason a whole generation of people is growing up without being able to worship in their sacred temples that were plundered.
I have to stop him.
I need to be less reckless. Even if I hadn’t broken in to get it, none of what I got from his apartment could be used in court.
I Google the name Ozwald Annan and don’t get a single hit. He’s my guy. The only people with no digital footprint are dead or have something to hide.
I’m going to drag him and everyone who’s helped him out of the shadows.
On Monday, I’ll confirm his attendance before I pitch the story to Kathy and ask for a press pass.
Pleased with my plan, I throw my research file back in the box and drag it out to my car to take home when I leave on Sunday.
I’m covered in dust and decide to take a shower before I settle down to work.
I take my time in the shower and lather on my body oil, Nivea, and spritz myself with the azalea body spray my mother keeps stocked in every bathroom.
Saturated and smelling so good I could kiss myself, I stroll out of the bathroom languid from the hot, high-pressure shower and flop naked and damp onto the bed to air dry.
“I thought I heard the shower running.” My mother’s voice comes out of nowhere.
“Ma!” I yelp and jump off the bed grab the dark pink cloth from the back of the door and wrap it around myself.
“Oh please, I don’t know where you learned this foolish modesty from.” She sucks her teeth and steps aside as I come back out of the bathroom.
“It’s not foolish. It’s normal.” I secure the knot in my makeshift halter neck.
She humphs a breath. “Who do you think was changing your nappies and digging compacted feces out with my bare hands when you were constipated?”
I groan. “Ma, please.”
“What? If I spare the details, the story isn’t as interesting,” she shoots back and sits down on my bed.
“We used to wear our cloth like that in boarding school when it was too hot to get dressed. Who taught you to tie yours like that?”
“Ediri. When we were in college.”
“How is she and that lovely husband of hers? Did she decide what to wear to her luncheon next week?”
I chuckle. “You’d know that better than me,” I remind her.
My mother loves having Ediri to fawn over. In some ways she’s closer to my mom than I am. I used to be jealous of it. Now I’m glad she has someone who can give her that. “She’s great. She just opened a new branch of her flower shop in Clapham Junction.”
“See, she can have it all. So can you.”
“So you keep saying,” I mutter and pull out my clothes.
“What are you doing on a Friday afternoon? I thought you’d come tomorrow,” she says, walking over to my bed.
“I came to look for some files I left in those boxes in the garage and to spend the weekend if you guys are cool with that.”
She sits next to my open suitcase and starts rifling through it, her expression creased with puzzlement. “Why didn’t you bring any real clothes, Sin? It’s Labor Day. We’ll have people here.”
“Hmmm, funny because I thought those clothes were real. Scary to find out they’re just a figment of my imagination that you can see, too.”
“You don’t take anything seriously.”
“Of course I do, but your critique of my clothes wasn’t serious to begin with so I was just matching the mood.” I stick my tongue out.
“Fine, I’ll go look in my closet for something you can wear.”
“Don’t worry. I brought a dress. It’s hanging in my closet.”
She purses her lips and closes the case with a resigned sigh. “Instead of playing with my emotions, make yourself useful.”
I kiss my afternoon nap goodbye and turn around to face her. “How?” I ask even though I already know what’s coming.
“I need to cook a mountain of food and clean the floors in the foyer and sunroom. Now I have help.”
I stifle my groan. I haven’t been home for an hour. The last thing I want to do is rehash my role as her girl of all work. “Where’s Adonis?”
She narrows her eyes at me and sucks her teeth. “Instead of looking for your brother, you should be rolling up your sleeves.”
I glance at my laptop and the pile of journals next to it. I was going to spend the day getting ready to make my case to Kathy on Monday. “I have some work to do. I just need an hour.”
She pats my cheek and gazes at me with deep affection in her eyes. “You’re so determined to do things your way.”
I throw an arm around her and bump her with my hip. “Aren’t we all?”
She wraps her arm around my waist. “Some of us more than others. I guess I should be grateful that you usually do the right thing.” She looks up at me with a rueful smile, “Eventually.”
I laugh at her caveat. “I’m glad you can acknowledge that.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “What am I going to do with you? My daughter who was born knowing her own mind. I admire you as much as I worry for you.”
“Don’t worry, Ma. I’m fine. I’m just finding my way.”
She gets up and walks the door. “The onions are waiting for you to chop. Fry them until they are golden and then salt, Maggi, shrimp powder and the ground pepper and ginger I’ve left in the fridge. Add the tomatoes and—”
“Stir until my arm falls off,” I finish for her.
She ignores me. “Once you’re finished, I will come and add the rice. You’ve got a heavy hand and I want this jollof to be the best I’ve ever made.”
I ignore her slight dig at my first attempt making this staple and beloved dish. “It’s a holiday weekend. We should just order a tray from Rainbow and call it a day.”
“Aiii. God forbid.” She hisses and snaps her fingers over her head three times. “Store-bought jollof at my table? No. I’m making it.” She points at me. “You’re going to help me. We can enjoy each other’s company while we cook.”
“That’s never how it goes,” I mutter.
She ignores me but casts one last glance around my bedroom, her eyes lingering on my overflowing suitcase.
A small frown furrows her brow and I know what’s coming.
She closes the space between us and strokes my face with her smooth, elegant fingers.
“Why did God make you so beautiful and smart if it wasn’t to bring you a fine husband? ”
“Mama—” I start only to be cut off by the sharp trill of her phone.
“That will be your father. I have to go. Wash the rice for me, please.” She disappears from the door as quickly as she appeared.
As much as I hate her continuing to believe that Stephen is a good catch, it’s less problematic for me than the can of worms telling her the truth of what happened between us would open.