“Did you hear me? This is a mistake. Just let me go,” she repeats. While shaking his head, Akeem opens the envelope and pulls out the photographs. He places all three in front of her. Closely, he examines her face for any reaction or flickers of recognition in her eyes but she doesn’t give him anything, nothing. Stone-faced, she briefly glances down then back up to him. “That’s not me,” she proclaims with so much confidence that for a split second, he’s inclined to believe her.
The face and eyes don’t lie. This is her.
“So, this isn’t you?” he asks condescendingly as he taps the photograph of her at a restaurant. She’s dressed in a body-hugging black dress and standing in front of a rose wall with neon lights.
“No,” she says adamantly.
Pointing to the middle picture of her on a yacht, hair and dress blowing in the wind, he asks with the same condescending tone, “And this isn’t either?”
“No, that’s not me. It’s my sister,” she proclaims and she instantly notices a deep furrowing of his thick eyebrows. “I’m guessing you didn’t know I have a twin,” she says with a smirk. His face reveals it all; he didn’t have a clue. “I’m Sunjiya Daniels and that person with my same face is my twin sister, Tanjaya Willis,” she says.
His furrowed eyebrows relax but that doesn’t last long. They peak then the sides of his lips curl down. He’s heard some wild shit before but this is almost laughable.
“You expect me to believe that,” he says smugly.
“Yes, because it’s the truth. That’s Tanjaya. My sister, not me.”
“Then where is she?” he asks, and this time, her lips dip into a frown.
That’s the million-dollar question.
“I don’t know,” she admits.
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s the fucking truth. I just got here this morning. She paid for my plane ticket and even left her apartment key. I was waiting for her to get off work and come home,” she stresses.
“Where does she work?” he asks, still not buying her obviously fabricated story.
“I don’t know,” she admits, then sighs.
“But she’s your twin sister?”
“Yes. It’s complicated.”
“I think grabbing you to take you back to Miami is complicated. This sounds like some bullshit, but amuse me. Shit. We’ve got time. Neither of us is going anywhere,” he says and her bound hand itches to slap the smug look off his face.
“Bastard,” she utters.
“I’ll be that until you tell me the truth.”
“I’m telling you the fucking truth,” she snaps. Her emotions and free arm have her moving too much as she speaks and she instantly regrets it. “Shit,” she hisses from the quick reminder of her recent dislocation. “I can prove it,” she says through the pain.
“I’d like to hear this.”
“I just need my ID and phone. I have the texts from her and the ticket info on the phone and my license proves who I am.”
“I can make that shit myself,” he says.
“It’s legit but there’s more stuff in my purse. Did you kidnap that too?” she huffs, then rolls her eyes—frustrated, slightly frantic, and pissed.
“No,” he scoffs then leans back into his chair. His eyes travel to hers and he sees the same thing in them as he did in her pictures, vacancy. No life, happiness, or even sparks of joy, but there’s something, maybe fight. After taking a deep breath, he rubs his beard then offers her an olive branch, another alternative besides this blatant and outlandish lie. “If you’rerunning from him for whatever reason, tell me. I can and will help you.”
“Him who?” she yells.
“We both know who, Marcelin. Just tell me. I promise I can help you if you just tell me what’s really going on and why he wants you back,” he says sincerely.
Besides women and children, Akeem has no issues with executing a kill contract. The hunt, planning the perfect location for the cleanest shot, and pulling trigger are a rush, a high no drug can match. But when the person on the other end of his bullet is a piece of shit like Marcelin, the feeling is superb. The truth from her can end this shit right now. No call to Marcelin would be made. This ending would be different, which might cause Marcelin to get a hot one to his heart.
