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 andyou’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 billthat I’ll miss very much.
