The Party

The next evening Bridget let herself into Quisha’s apartment to set up. She had to admit to feeling a little envious of her cousin who acquired more material things in her short time being in Detroit simply by being in the right place at the right time.

Bridget paused at the window looking out at the dark water and the lights over on the Canadian side before she went into the kitchen to prepare food and drinks. Her boyfriend would join her a little later after he got off work. By eight-o’clock guests were starting to trickle in.

“Nice place,” one guest told her.

“Thank you,” Bridget said and directed them over to the bar area she set up. By ten everything was in full swing; even people she didn’t know were showing up. At some point a couple ended up in Quisha’s bedroom and on her bed making out. When they finished the woman was putting her shirt on when she saw the photo of young Donte on the nightstand.

“What’s wrong,” the guy asked as he pulled on his pants.

“This is my big brother,” she said and handed the photo to her date.

“What? You sure?” he asked.

“I think I know what my brother’s baby picture looks like. But who is that White woman holding him?” She flipped the photo over looking for a name. Allencourt 1981. And why does Bridget have this photo?” she asked herself out loud.

“I don’t know.” Her date said and went back out to the party.

Denise struggled between slipping the photo in her purse or leaving it there. She needed some answers. She took the photo and hoped it wouldn’t be missed.

Earlier in the day Chad called Quisha again at her apartment and his house number and got no answer. This was highly unusual. He called his brother.

“Hey, Bryan can you swing by my house and check on Quisha?”

“Why?” his brother asked.

“Something is not right,” Chad said.

“You’re really in love with her,” Bryan said then continued. “You know, brother, when you first brought her home I knew you were up to something—what, I didn’t know. But I know you love shock value. I still don’t know why you brought her into our family but I see now—”

He was cut off. “Just shut up for once and go to my house. You know where the key is if you have to let yourself in,” Chad said, annoyed with his brother. Bryan didn’t finish what he was doing at his office.

“I’m leaving the office for a while,” he told his secretary as he looked at his watch. “You know just go home. I’ll pay you for a full day,” he said and grabbed up his jacket and drove to Chad’s house.

* * *

Quisha’s car was in the drive. Bryan rang the doorbell. No answer. He walked around to the back and onto the sun porch. The middle flower pot where he knew his brother kept the spare key was knocked over, but no key.

The door was slightly ajar. This doesn’t look good, he said to himself and pulled out his concealed weapon.

“Hello?” he called out into what appeared to be an empty house. He went upstairs first. The bed in the master bedroom had been disturbed—like there was someone there who got up with intentions of coming back.

“Hello?” he said again and looked in the master bath before checking the other bedrooms upstairs. He headed back down to the living room, dining room and then to the kitchen and was horrified at what he saw—Quisha, still tied to a chair, but it was tipped over and she was gagged. When she saw Bryan she was relieved. Her eyes were red from crying and her face was streaked with tears.

“Oh my god,” he said rushing to her side. He put the chair in its proper position. For a moment he had some sympathy for the stripper. He unfastened the scarf from around her mouth.

“Do you know who did this?” he asked without thinking.

“No,” she said. She was exhausted from trying to get out of her constraints.

“How long have you been like this?” Bryan asked.

“I don’t know. It happened early this morning.” It was now around four in the afternoon.

“Did Chad send you to check up on me?” she asked as he undid her hands and then her feet.

“Yes, as a matter of fact he did and it’s a good thing,” Bryan said. “I’ll call him and you call the police,” he finished.

Within ten minutes the police were at the house. By then Quisha had combed her hair, washed her tear-stained face and pulled a robe around her body.

“Everything ok?” Chad asked his brother over the phone.

“How well do you know Quisha?” Bryan asked.

“Why?” Chad asked.

“I don’t know yet. When I got to your house she had been bound and gagged. She said you were robbed—they got into your safe,” Bryan said.

“Which safe?” Chad inquired.

“According to Quisha, she said she heard the men say they found a safe in the back of the closet in your master suite,” Bryan told him.

“Oh, good,” Chad countered.

“Good? How is that good?” Bryan asked.

“I learned it from you. That’s a decoy safe with a few hundred throwaway dollars in case of a burglary,” Chad said.

He kept his real safe down in the basement under a faux floor.

“Ok, that’s good. But it leads me back to my question. How well do you know this woman? You’ve been in this house for five years and this community in general doesn’t have a history of home invasions. I found that strange, don’t you?”

“Don’t accuse her of anything. I’ll be on the next flight back,” Chad said.

“Are you done with your business in L.A.?” his brother asked.

“No, but this is important.”

Bryan went back into the kitchen where the police officer was asking Quisha more questions.

“Is there anything else you can remember?—the smallest detail to you can be what captures the persons who did this,” the officer said.

Quisha shook her head, reliving the awful experience. She was scared for her life but she made mental images in case she needed to relive it.

“They both had on black,” she said. “The one with the scarf around his head had a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck. And one of them said the name ‘T’. They wore gloves.”

After the officers left, Bryan stayed around to help Quisha with what she needed.

“I have to get out of here,” she said. I won’t spend the night here again, alone.”

“Yeah, pretty convenient huh—that this happened when you were here alone,” Bryan said suspiciously.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Quisha turned and asked him.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said

“Good, because after that terrible ordeal, the last thing I want is to take my frustrations out on you for being an insensitive, racist jackass,” Quisha said. She ran upstairs to get her belongings and then was out the door. She ignored Bryan when he said, “Chad said he’s taking the first flight in.”

When Quisha got home her apartment was in shambles but Bridget and her boyfriend were still there cleaning up.

“I didn’t expect you back today. God, what happened to you?” Bridget asked when she saw her cousin looking like she’d been through something horrible.

“Girl, you won’t believe it. I just survived a home invasion,” Quisha said and told her everything that happened from the beginning all the way to Bryan practically accusing her of being a part of the robbery.

“That racist asshole,” Bridget said, shaking her head.

“Girl, I’m so tired. I’m going to go take a shower and then go to bed,” Quisha said. But before she turned in, she changed the sheets on her bed because she could tell someone had been in her bed doing God knows what. She was too tired to even fuss at Bridget about it.

“We’ll let ourselves out when we leave,” Bridget said.

Sleep didn’t come right away. Quisha could still feel the rough hands handling her and the ugly way they spoke to her. She had genuinely been scared she might not make it out alive. When she finally fell asleep, she was jolted awake by a vivid nightmare. She sat up, assessed her surroundings and fell back into a deep sleep.