19
I stormed into the police station, and Destiny struggled to keep up with me.
“Cuz, wait for me!” Destiny said.
“Keep up,” I said.
My anger had grown all the way to the station as I realized Rodgers was playing a game with us.
Add the freezing cold—I couldn’t feel my face—and the thousand restaurants we passed—I was starving and hadn’t eaten since breakfast—and you had a recipe for Hurricane Aisha.
The receptionist, a portly black female officer, stood upon seeing me.
“What’s the problem?” she asked.
“Where’s Agent Rodgers?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but you need to stop right there,” she said, holding out her hand.
I stopped.
“I don’t mean any disrespect,” I said, “but I’m not happy right now.”
“Nobody that comes to the police station is happy,” the woman said, frowning.
“Rod
