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  “Was her sister there?” There was an odd note in his brother’s voice he couldn’t quite place. Wariness mixed with some other type of emotion evading his detection.

  “No.” The light turned green and he eased his foot on the gas pedal and drove on. “Just her.”

  “As much as I’d like to continue this discussion, we have business to take care of.”

  Kwasi clutched the wheel harder. “What’s up?”

  “Don Bridges wants us to beef up the security at the outdoor concert where his wife Kari is performing in two weeks. We need to do an analysis and then hire some more guards.”

  “Okay.”

  “He wants us to meet him at Java Cupid in a couple of days to go over the contract and then we’ll travel from there to the venue.”

  Kwasi stilled. Go back to Java? Where he had a chance to run into Gretchen again? No way! He opened his mouth to articulate those thoughts when instead he said, “Sounds like a plan.”

  Why did his heart betray itself by picking up in tempo? Why did his brain flash an image of her as she walked through the Java Cupid café, as alluring and seductive as a naughty angel? Why should his mind settle on the fact that after all these years, his mark still branded her?

  How could he ignore that symbol of possession?

  “Kwasi, you gotta focus, man. Don’t let her ruin everything again.”

  He jerked to attention, surprised he hadn’t crashed into a building from the way his thoughts had completely turned inward. He found himself stopped at another stoplight.

  “I’m okay.”

  It was a lie and they both knew it. But for the moment, they glossed over it as they discussed the terms of their upcoming contract with the Bridges. As soon as Kojo hung up the phone, Kwasi pulled into the driveway of their home and parked the car with only one thought barreling in his mind. When he met with Don Bridges in the next couple of days, he hoped Gretchen would be there again.

  And if that wasn’t the most idiotic thing, then what was?

  The drive back to Whitehead museum passed by in a brief second. The only road Gretchen could see was the road map of pain carved onto Kwasi’s back. A trail of suffering she’d placed there as if she’d etched it with her fingers.

  Blindly, she parked the car in the space reserved for her and entered the museum via the employee entrance. The icy air-conditioned air lifted goosebumps along her arms. She flashed her badge to the attendant guard and made the trek toward her office.

  Co-workers paused to talk to her. On auto-pilot she responded to them without giving any hint she hadn’t heard a word they said. Inside she longed to scream, but her sister once said her ability to fake interest should be classified as a superpower.

  Once she attained her office, Gretchen leaned against the door and flitted her gaze around the room.

  Everything within the small space was a testament to her obsession for her roots. Though she and her twin had to escape their village to avoid the horror that would have befallen her, she never forgot it.

  From the tribal artifacts and recreations stuffed in every corner, to the paintings of nature and simplicity hanging on the walls, to the books on anthropology, archaeology, myths, and legends, everything about this space showed her love for her humble beginnings in a small village with no name in Tanzania.

  And highlighted the sin she wished she could atone for.

  She dragged her leaden feet to her desk and sat. Concentrating, she pushed away any other thought but that of her twin. “I need you,” she whispered in the stillness of the room.

  Gretchen waited, staring at the painted warrior’s mask affixed to the wall. It was one her father had made many years ago. Four minutes later, her cell phone rang.

  “What’s wrong?” Her sister huffed, catching her breath.

  “Treadmill?”

  “Yeah. Ten miles today.”

  Gretchen envisioned a version of herself, dressed in spandex and a sports bra, heaving in a semi-crowded locker room with long braids tied in a bun on top of her head. Her twin – the other half of her soul.

  “Gertrude, you’re not going to believe this.” She picked up a doll from her desk. It was one made by a woman in one of the villages she visited. A gift of help, the local translators had told her. Gretchen polished the beaded eyes with her finger.

  I could use a little help right now.

  “Try me,” Gertrude wheezed.

  Her eyes closed as Kwasi’s image rose before her like a specter. “My husband is alive.”

  Gertrude made a strangled noise on the other end of the phone. “Are you kidding me?” her sister exclaimed.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “We thought he was dead!”

  Gretchen nodded as though Gertrude was in front of her. “He’s not. He’s alive.”

  With the sexiest lips and body I’ve ever seen.

  “Was his brother there?” There was an edge to her sister’s voice Gretchen couldn’t quite pinpoint. Gertrude sounded almost nervous. Possibly apprehensive. But what reason would her twin sister have to feel that way? Gretchen dismissed the odd thought from her mind.

  “No, he wasn’t there.”

  “What happened when you saw him again?”

  I drooled. Heat flamed her cheeks. She doubted her sister wanted to hear that, so she went with the harsher reality of Kwasi’s reaction. “He was furious.”

  “He has no cause to be upset with you.”

  “On the contrary, Gertie, he does. If it wasn’t for my big mouth, the hunters would have never—”

  “Do you really believe that?” Gertrude huffed on the phone. “They’d use any excuse to kill Kwasi and Kojo and you know it.”

  “And I gave them that excuse.” It hurt to admit her complicity. “Gertie, he asked about the mark.”

  “Sweet Mary and Joseph! Please tell me you didn’t let him see it.”

  Gretchen didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

  “Why would you do that?” Gertrude yelled. “You and I both know he’ll—”

  “I’m his wife, Gertie. I know what he’ll do.”

  Behind those darkened shades, his eyes had narrowed with such intense emotion. When he demanded she show him the mark, she could have ignored his request and brushed off his demand.

  But the mark had been the catalyst for the nightmare they shared. He had a right to know it still existed just as she had the obligation to make him aware of it.

  “You’re not his wife!” Gertie’s insistent voice broke through her musings. “You were six years old when the elders performed the ritual. Even then, they wanted you to wait until you had your first period before you did anything remotely wife-like.”

  Gretchen’s eyes stayed fixed on the warrior’s mask. “That may be.”

  “Besides, that was twenty years ago. I can’t believe you would still think you’re married to a boy the village forced on you.”

  Forced on her? Gretchen’s mouth trembled in a small, sad smile. The village elders may have strongly suggested the marriage between herself and Kwasi, but she knew even at that tender age, the only man she wanted was Kwasi. She wasn’t a reluctant child bride but an eager one.

  “Things have changed, Gertie. My husband is alive. I owe him my life in exchange for the one I thought he lost.”

  “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this bull. We both know it wasn’t your fault. But if you’re going to shoulder this thing like some martyr then I’m not going to stand here a second longer on this phone and listen to it.”

  “Gertie—”

  The screen blacked out. Gretchen let the phone slip from her fingers and back into her purse. The ensuing silence enveloped her like a cocoon. The little doll with its beaded eyes seemed to stare straight into her own soul, daring her to admit the truth she hadn’t shared with anyone, much less the sister of her heart who knew almost everything about her.

  Getting up, she set the doll aside and walked over to the mirror and half turned to hone her gaze o
n Kwasi’s mark.

  She’d avoided the existence of this for as long as she could. When she first came to the U. S., his mark was all she could think about. Sometimes, she’d have to bury the pillow against her face and scream into the soft depths of it because it was all that was left of the boy who was her husband. At other times, Gertie had stopped her from taking a knife to her flesh on several occasions in order to extract it from her skin. Over time, with therapy, she’d learned to accept this mark as a part of herself.

  Now things had changed.

  She closed her eyes and thought about the day Kwasi had put his mark on her. His lips had closed over her skin. His tongue licked—

  “Gretchen, may I come in?”

  Her eyes jerked open. The reflection in the mirror detailed the beat in her neck pulsing with an upbeat tempo. She swallowed and with a degree of difficulty, willed herself back to normalcy and shoved the past back into the recesses of her mind.

  Going back over to her desk, she sat and rolled her neck. Affecting a smile, she called out, “Come in.”

  The door opened. “Not disturbing you, am I?” Lonnie Canton, coordinator of outreach events for the museum, asked as he sauntered in.

  “Not at all,” she lied. “What can I do for you?”

  “A couple of the local elementary schools have reached out to us in order to facilitate some trips with the museum. They’re particularly interested in your area of expertise.”

  A beat of excitement thrummed through her, flinging away the confusion of her other unwelcome thoughts. Like a fish submerging into water, she greedily gulped in the distraction Lonnie had given her. She loved working with children and educating them.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! Of course, I’d love to do it.”

  Lonnie grinned. “I knew you would. Kids make all of this worthwhile.” His hands spread out. “We can pass down our love to the next generation and then they’ll be the ones keeping the artifacts and telling the stories to their kids.”

  She nodded. “Yes, yes. Send me all the details and I’ll get to work on it right away. How much leeway do we have? Three, four months?”

  His smile wavered. “Well, not exactly.”

  She frowned. “How long?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Gretchen groaned. “Lonnie, you have to be kidding me. You know it’s gonna take longer than three weeks to pull any of this together.”

  “I told them that but they’ve got to fulfill budget requirements. The kids need a field trip so they have to have one.”

  “But three weeks! I’m not a miracle worker!”

  Lonnie shook his head in sympathy but his gaze was clear as he said, “Think of it this way: if you can’t do this, they’ll throw some scientific trip at them. Some egghead will tell them how backward indigenous cultures are. Then those kids will continue to look at them when they see them on TV as weirdos instead of equals.”

  Her lips thinned. With the rise of scientific intrigue and advancement, more school children were being indoctrinated to focus on the future with little interest for the past. It was her duty to make sure she did what she could to dissuade them of the idea. Ignorance of history led to mistakes of tomorrow.

  “I’ll make it work but we’re going to have to meet face to face. It can’t all be through email.”

  “I’ll let them know. Maybe we can all meet at Java Cupid.” His green eyes gleamed. “I’m dying to see if I get a message on my cup. I’d love to meet the love of my life.”

  Gretchen started. Lonnie’s eyebrows rose in the air. “You okay?”

  No, I’m not. “Of course. We can meet there. Set up the dates, will you?”

  Lonnie gave a curt nod and left. She clacked away at the keyboard. Scouring her contact list, she pleaded with her network of local experts in indigenous cultures to participate in the event. Most grudgingly accepted since their views reflected her own.

  A little while later, she glanced up and met the beady eyed stare of the little helper doll across the room. The panacea of work vanished away. Its head was tilted to the side as if to say, You can’t wait to see him again, can you?

  “No,” she said aloud into the stillness. “I can’t wait to see him again.”

  Jeb was browsing through his social media feed on his phone when a tall, dark shadow blocked the sunlight.

  Holding back a sigh, he set the phone down and glanced up at his customer. A guy with a dark, leathery kind of face and jaundiced-looking eyes towered above him like a totem pole.

  “Welcome to Java Cupid, where we heart our coffee. I’m Jeb. What can I get for you?”

  The man leaned on the counter. A strong aroma of cigar smoke clung to him. It was so potent Jeb almost coughed in reaction to its pungency.

  “Hey, I happened to overhear your discussion with the dude with the blonde afro.” The guy’s voice had a distinct rasp to it—light and scratchy. It reminded Jeb of a metal grate being dragged across concrete pavement.

  “What about it?” Jeb’s neck hair stood at attention but he couldn’t pinpoint why.

  “Y’all were talking about the new tea you have?”

  “Oh, the Java Blend. Yeah, Kwasi really liked it. Maybe you will, too. Want me to get that for you?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. Despite the strangeness of the thought, Jeb couldn’t help but feel as if he were staring into the eyes of a snake. He gave himself a mental shake. What was wrong with him?

  Pursing his lips, the man asked, “What’s in it again?”

  “Vanilla and essence of chocolate with coconut cream and cinnamon.”

  “All that, huh?” He tapped his lips in thought. “I’m not really a tea drinker but it sounds tasty.”

  Jeb waited while the customer stood in indecision. After a moment, the guy shook his head. “Nah, seems like too much. You make it sound good, though.”

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?” Jeb hoped not, although he couldn’t understand why.

  “No, thanks again.”

  The man gave a quick nod and then walked away, a phone appearing suddenly in his hand.

  Jeb released a breath, wondering why he had such a reaction to a total stranger. Then he shrugged it off and picked his phone back up to continue browsing through his feed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Bro?”

  Kwasi jolted from his blind contemplation of the contract on the table before him. “Yeah? What?”

  Kojo dragged his fingers through his thick, blond mohawk. “Look, man. This is starting to get ridiculous. So Afia showed up again. Big deal. Forget about her. She’s not worth it.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about her,” Kwasi denied with as much conviction in his voice as he could muster.

  Kojo’s light-colored eyes narrowed in mock scorn. “Yeah, right. You forgot you’re talking to the left hemisphere of your brain.”

  Kwasi’s mouth twitched in humor. “If you’re the left hemisphere of my brain then any kids I’m going to have are doomed.”

  A look passed between them. Then Kojo sighed. “Back to the matter at hand. Afia—”

  “Her name’s Gretchen now,” he corrected.

  “Gretchen? Whose idea was that?”

  “Who knows?” He shrugged. Quiet as kept, he preferred Gretchen. The name tasted well on his tongue. Referring to her as he’d once known her hurt too much. His instinct was to flinch every time he thought of her as Afia.

  “Regardless what her name is, forget about her.”

  If it were only that easy. The past two days carried the veil of her presence. She’d never stepped foot in his house, nor in his car, or any other place besides Java Cupid, but her essence lingered. She invaded his dreams at night. Sometimes in an erotic fantasy with no substance except the remembered taste of her flesh when they were children. At other intervals, she stood front and center of his nightmares, watching with her doll-like eyes as the tiger brandished those razor-sharp claws into his back.

  No matter the dream, he’d awakened dre
nched in sweat.

  “Can we just go over this contract? Don Bridges is meeting us tomorrow at Java Cupid.”

  Kwasi straightened and glanced once more at the black and white lines. He couldn’t focus on this right now. Don Bridges seemed like a straight arrow.

  “Look, I’m sure you’ve gone over this with a fine-toothed comb. I trust your judgement.”

  He had more important things to worry about. Things his brother would certainly object to.

  “No, bro.” Kojo squinted at him. “You’re not going to get out of this. You need to take this business more seriously.”

  “I do take it seriously. I started it, didn’t I? How serious is that?”

  “You started it but you don’t want to grow it. You’re content to let it stagnate and make just enough money to do, what? Nothing.”

  Kwasi opened his mouth to respond when Kojo pushed the wheeled chair from the desk and got up. “That’s always been your problem. You don’t want to go after anything. Private security is a huge industry. We can make a lot of money in this if we play our cards right.”

  “I know, I know,” Kwasi answered wearily. “You keep telling me.”

  “Well, maybe it bears repeating!” his twin huffed.

  The aggravation bristling his twin’s body made him sorrowful. “Kojo, we’ve talked about this a thousand times. Growing the business can cause more problems than what it’s worth. I don’t want this operation to take over my life. I don’t want to spend precious time chasing down contacts, looking for the next lucrative job. Life’s too short to spend it hustling for one gig or another.”

  Kojo shook his head. “I know how short life is. That’s why we have to make the most of what we have.”

  How could two brothers share the same face, the same skin, and the same trauma, and be so different? Perceiving the irritation his twin projected, Kwasi wondered if they would ever see eye to eye on anything. Their hellish childhood culminating with their escape from the village made them both acknowledge the brevity of life.