Harsh Realities

I should’ve listened to my first intuition when my realtor back in Houston called me and told me everything was a go. But, no, stupid me went against my better judgment and hopped on the next flight to Texas. What in the world was I thinking? I didn’t need the money the so-called couple had offered. I guess I just wanted to move on with my life. Well, thanks to my realtor, that didn’t happen. I traveled with my Louis Vuitton carry-on bag so I wouldn’t have to make a stop at baggage claim. I planned to fly into Houston, sign whatever paperwork I needed to sign, collect my funds from my realtor, and head back to Anguilla the very next morning. But Houston’s homicide detectives had a different plan for my ass.

As soon as I walked off the plane, two white men approached me with their badges in hand and advised me to follow them to the airport’s security office. Fear consumed me, and now my mind confirmed what my gut had told me a couple days ago. I knew my bitch realtor had set me up, since she was the only one who knew I was coming to Houston, but there was nothing I could do about it now.

I followed these white men like I was asked, and from there we headed down to their headquarters. They took me to a small room with a metal table and three chairs. There was one of those two-way mirrors on the wall like you saw on those police detective television shows, but that shit didn’t faze me one bit. I knew how the game was played. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been in this type of predicament before. Shit, I’d been in interrogation rooms with some of the best investigators the feds had to offer, so I was thinking, These little puppies better come correct with whatever they got, or don’t come at all.

It didn’t surprise me that those bastards left me in that room for over two fucking hours. I was beyond furious when they marched their asses into the room to start their little interrogation. And even though they hadn’t divulged one word about why they were detaining me, I knew it was about my cousin Nikki.

Both detectives took a seat. The fat one was the first one to speak. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

I sucked my teeth and gave him the most disgusted expression I could muster. “Do I look like I need something to drink?”

“Ms. Walters, there is no need for the sarcasm. All we’re trying to do is make you as comfortable as possible,” the fat man replied.

“You can’t make me comfortable by sitting in this little-ass room. Let me the hell out of here, and then I’ll start to feel comfortable,” I roared.

“Ms. Walters, we will let you go as soon as you answer a few questions,” the other detective said.

I sighed heavily. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, you’re not,” the same detective said.

“So, why did you bring me all the way down here? Don’t you think I’ve got better shit to do than to be locked up in some cold-ass room?”

The fat detective said, “I’m sure you do, Ms. Walters, but we are investigating your cousin’s murder, and—”

“My cousin’s murder? What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to act as shocked and distraught as I could. I knew I had to put on my acting hat, because these motherfuckers were looking at my body language and my facial expressions really hard, so they were ready for me to slip up. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I had too much riding on my freedom. I wasn’t going to let these bastards lock up my ass for being an accessory to her murder.