The Scammer - 34

It’s amazing that I never noticed how my dorm room resembles a prison cell. The grayish walls, the narrow window with little

light, the bare minimal furnishings, the stifled air, the energy left over from Devonte’s reign.

The lack of personality is my own doing.

I stuff my bedsheets, pillows, and towels into garbage bags, amazed that over the last few months, I hadn’t amassed more belongings.

I was so focused on making it work, on sticking to the plan, that it didn’t leave much time for shopping.

I glance out the window down into the courtyard, watching other students head up to campus, toward the Malcolm Center for

dinner, and I wish so badly to be one of them.

Instead, I’m wrapping up the short chapter in my life. A bittersweet ending.

I walk into the kitchen, taking my Frazier mug off the shelf with a small smile. I didn’t expect to fall in love with this school. With the culture, the professors, my classes . . . I still had other people’s opinions clouding my judgment. Who gives up Yale for a Black school?

Me, and I would do it all over again. Except do it right.

Whatever time I had here has been marred by controversy. I can’t possibly make new friends now. Who would trust me? Devonte

is gone, Kammy is still missing, and I’m still a person of interest in public opinion, despite proof clearing my name.

My phone buzzes on the desk. An unknown number.

Maybe it’s Devonte, I think, and answer quick.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Detective Gates. Is this Jo?”

I freeze in the middle of the room. “Uh, yeah.”

“You called me a few weeks back about Devonte Saunders. Sorry I’m just getting to your message now. His parole officer called.

Sounds like he’s in the wind. First, let me ask, are you okay?”

“Um, yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Good. On your message, you mentioned something about him running a credit card scam?”

“Yeah. And that’s what he went to prison for, right?”

“Yes but . . . it’s not that simple. You’re a college student, right?”

“Um yeah,” I mutter, kicking myself for not coming up with a better fake name on the fly. He could easily find me now and

if he tracks this number, he’ll know more about me than anyone on this entire campus.

“Did you turn in any evidence to the DC police yet?” he asks, and for some reason I sense the urgency in his voice.

“No. Why?”

“You need to do that right now before they miss their chance to catch her too.”

“Her? Who?”

“Devonte’s not the one you have to be worried about,” Gates says. “He’s just a front man. His girlfriend is the one pulling

all the strings. They’ve been considering building a federal case against her. Racketeering, extortion . . .”

I do a mental check, thinking of every girl I’ve seen walk into our suite. No one stands out among the rest.

“I don’t think we’re talking about the same guy,” I snap, annoyed that after all this time, he’d call back about the wrong

person. “I haven’t met any girlfriend. I only know his sister, Vanessa.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. “That’s not his sister.”

The world goes silent as the floor drops from beneath me. “What?”

“Her name is Shameeka Foster. She goes by Vanessa, or Nessa, sometimes. She’s thirty-two years old but doesn’t look it. They’ve

been together pulling this shit since they were sixteen.”

Keys jiggle in the lock. The suite door opens and in walks Vanessa. She smiles brightly, book bag slung on her shoulder, and

waves, heading to her room.

I stare at the empty space she left in the hall, my arms numb. I turn to the window, lungs shrinking down to the size of lima beans.

“She’s dangerous,” Gates says, and I realize he’s been talking to me the entire time. “Back sixteen years ago she was the

prime suspect in the murder investigation of a young college girl. Everyone suspected she was the one who did it. Devonte

wasn’t even near the crime scene but had been seen with the girl previously. He made a better headline. The last scam those

two ran resulted in a young college boy—”

A knock on the door makes me jump. I spin around and quickly end the call, hands shaking.

“Hey,” I croak out.

Vanessa stands at my bedroom door, leaning against it with a smirk. “Hey. You said you wanted to talk?”