A young mother, haunted by war, is determined to make a fresh start.
When I was a gIrl, I dreamed.
Running through my father’s orchard in pursuit of my brother, ten years older and newly returned from school. Shrieking his name when he refuses to slow down, churning my stubby legs harder.
“Farshid, Farshid, Farshid!”
The sound of his laughter floating ahead of me, till suddenly I round a leafy tree heavy with bright red pomegranates and there he is, planted squarely in the middle of the path to sweep me up and swing me around. I giggle. He twirls faster. I laugh and beg him to stop, which only makes him gain speed, till both of us topple to the ground.
We lie in the late fall grass, the sky impossibly blue overhead. In the distance the snow-capped mountains beckon like teeth, while to the other side the flat plains sweep on and on in an endless apron of white-frosted earth. My country is beautiful, but I don’t understand any of this yet. I just consider it home.
Collapsed on the ground, my brother tousles my dark hair, then demands to know what sort of trouble his favorite little shekambu has been causing.
“I’m not always hungry!”
“Of course you are.” He pats my tubby little belly while I scowl at him.
“And I’m not greedy! At least I wouldn’t be if I could go to school!”
“You are too young.” “How do you know?”
“Because schools have rules, everyone knows that.”
“I don’t know that. See, you must take me to school so that I can study these things.”
“You want to go to school to learn why you can’t go to school?”
“Exactly!”
“Soon, shekambu, soon. Next year you can have lessons on anything you want. Just remember that when the sun is calling and you’re stuck with a pile of boring texts.”
I wrinkle my nose, because I know already there’s no such thing as boring texts. There are only wonderful and more wonderful novels to read. I’ve already learned this from my father, a literature professor in Kabul who practically lives with his nose stuck between pages, and my mother, who spends each night flipping through glossy fashion magazines before retiring to her sew- ing machine to tackle her next inspiration.
I have my own stack of brightly colored children’s books. I diligently peruse them when my parents are watching, then steal from their piles when they are not. I love words. All words. I love ideas. All ideas. I love worlds. All worlds.
I love this world, and my larger-than-life big brother and brilliant baba jan and gorgeous maadar jan and crowds of aunts, uncles, cousins who talk too loudly and lecture too much and swirl through our lives as busily and prettily as petals in the wind. We live part of the year in a walled compound in the hustle and bustle of Kabul and the other months in my father’s favorite place on earth, his country estate in Herat, where roses bloom and the orchards bear fruit and there are so many places for a little shekambu and her brother to run wild and free.
Two halves of one whole, my mādar calls us. And this sunny afternoon, lying side by side in the shade of a bushy pomegranate tree, that feels exactly right.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
During the school year, my father trims his sharply pointed beard and buttons up his vest before heading to the university each morning. Half out the door, a distracted, befuddled mess, he will pause, turn back around.
He and my mother share a look. My brother and I have studied it many times. It is their look. We don’t understand it, but on some level, we know it’s good and we’re happy they have it.
Then my father heads off to teach, while my mother prepares more tea for her and me to enjoy. Her long black hair is carefully coiffed and pinned at the nape of her neck. Her brown skin is flawless, her dark brows perfect arches framing her lustrous gray eyes. My mother is beautiful. Everyone says so, even my aunts, though they fuss over her choice in clothes and make faces that communicate both stern disapproval and powerful longing.
My mother loves fashion. She reads, she studies, she designs. Late into the night, I can hear her sewing machine whirring away.
In a matter of days, she’ll produce the next stylish outfit, an ode to decades past and cities far away such as Paris, London, New York.
My mother never just goes to the market. It’s an adventure of high art, where she’ll riffle through piles of beads, rows of shoes, and boxes of hats in order to perfectly punctuate her chosen ensemble.
“Chin up,” she states each time we prepare to depart, her in a perfect hat, me in a coordinating hajib. We exit my family’s compound to enter a sea of bustling humanity, where waves of Western blue jeans and dull-colored tunics part before my mother’s sapphire wrap dress or saffron-colored jumpsuit. Like my aunties, the other shoppers eye my mother with expressions that are a mix of awe and disapproval. Some gazes, under the thickly furrowed brows of darkly dressed men, follow her too long and too intently. Their stares are filled with a kind of heat I don’t understand and already don’t like. But when my mother catches them, she stops and skewers them with a look of her own, till one by one, they glance away.
My mother has many duties at the market. Picking out perfect cucumbers and ripe tomatoes for the evening’s chopped salad. Inspecting the fresh herbs for just the right bundle of mint. But there are other activities, too. A pause here, a whisper there. A discreet passing of one palm across another. Like children everywhere, I know when to fade into the background.
Later my mother will smile at me and nod approvingly.
And I know we share something special, just like her and my father with their parting glance. So I never speak of these moments, not even with Farshid, who rolls his eyes and groans over how much time women spend in the market.
One day, I want to be just like my maadar jan. I will never be as beautiful but maybe, just maybe, I can be as clever.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
The whispers start when I turn twelve.
Always behind closed doors. First my father and my mother. Then my aunts and uncles flitting about. Everyone talking, talking, talking. But no one saying anything.
My brother, returning home from his university studies. Additional murmurs behind my parents’ bedroom doors, where my mother spends more and more of her days.
Pale when she comes out. Exhausted when she returns.
My auntie, Fahima, a hawkish older woman with a relentless attention to detail, starts meeting me each day after school. Stand taller. Don’t read that. Don’t look at him. Don’t touch that. Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t.
Her fashion tastes run to flowing trousers and plain billowing blouses with a simple dark hijab covering her hair.
I want my mother. I miss her warm smile and outrageous outfits and fierce stare. But my mādar appears only long enough to disappear. A sudden shadow of her former self, patting my cheek, stroking my hair, telling me I’m pretty today—which we both know is a lie—before retiring once again to rest.
Whispers.
In our house, the city, my country, where Blackhawk choppers now circle overhead and concrete barricades expand daily, along with checkpoint after checkpoint, until a walk to the local market feels as arduous as a border crossing. The American soldiers are leaving. Our own forces will now protect us, though safe doesn’t feel so safe anymore.
Within a matter of months, my father summons me to the hallway outside my parents’ room. My brother is present but doesn’t meet my eye.
“Your mother wants to speak to you,” my father states, his voice thick. He points to the cracked door, indicating I should go in. But my feet won’t move. For once in my life, I don’t want to know. Whatever awaits on the other side, there won’t be any books that will be able to fix this.
I gaze at my brother pleadingly, but he keeps his attention fixed on the floor.
“Two halves of one whole,” I try. “Not this time, Sabera. Not this time.”
My father pushes the door open. Slowly, I force myself to step inside.
“Janem.”
My mother utters the term of endearment as half whisper, half sigh. I follow her hushed voice through the shadowed space till I’m just able to make out her face in a room where the drapes are tightly drawn and the bed piled high with blankets.
“Janem,” she murmurs again. The covers shift. She reaches out a hand so skeletal it’s painful to see. Her fingertips, light as feathers, dance across my forearm. She finds my wrist, clasps it lightly.
“Don’t,” I tell her. But I don’t mean for her to stop holding me. I mean for her not to say what she’s going to say. I mean for her not to leave me.
I drop to my knees, placing my forehead against the mattress, clasping her hand to my cheek. If I don’t let go, she will have to stay. The future will not happen. My mādar will always be mine.
She speaks, a dry rustle of words spinning around me. That she loves me. That I’m beautiful and strong and she’s very proud. That I am her daughter in every way possible, and she will always be with me, that voice in the back of my head, that feeling of warmth in my chest.
I can’t answer. I bathe her fingers in my tears. I clasp her bony hand tighter, as if that will make a difference.
Then she says what I’ve always feared. She states the words that expose our little secret, a deathbed confession involving the one piece of our relationship I’ve always known is mine and mine alone. And I hate this, too. It makes what will happen next too real, this passing of the guard as secret keeper from her to me.
“You know.” Her words are soft. A statement of fact. “You have seen.”
I bite my lip, sullen and resentful. If I refuse to speak of the market, acknowledge everything that happens, then she will have to stay. I’m certain of it.
She seems to understand, stroking my cheek soothingly.
“Do you understand it all?” she asks me. “You’ve always been the cleverest girl. Watching from the sidelines. Your brother suspects, but you, janem, you peer beneath the surface, connecting what shouldn’t connect, identifying a whole where others see only parts. You remind me of me, when I was a child.”
“Mādar—”
“Shh, while I can still speak, this is what you must know: You cannot trust your uncles. Your father is too gentle. They will bend him to their will, and he will not understand the danger until it’s too late. Never trust men who fatten their bellies off other people’s pain. And never, ever, believe any man knows what’s best for you. Even when they come from a place of love.” A pause. “Especially when they come from a place of love.
“You and only you will clean out my sewing room.” I nod helplessly.
“You will be troubled, and I’m sorry. You will feel you’re too young for such a burden, but you’re strong and powerful, janem. You will find your way.”
Her fingers squeeze mine. She raises her head to gaze at me with a fierceness I didn’t know she had left.
“You will tell no one. Do you understand? Not even Farshid. You can peer into other people’s souls, my sweet. But never let them see yours.”
I open my mouth. I want to say no, to selfishly refuse such a giant and terrifying ask.
But it’s too late. My mother’s head falls back against the pillows, the exhaustion like an extra blanket weighing her down.
She slips her hand from mine, draws a thin line through the tears on my cheek. “Should the worst happen, people will want to take everything, but in the end, they will be allowed nothing. Remember this, my sweet. Remember.”
I break down, sobbing, begging, demanding that she stay. She pats my back once, twice, three times. Then she gently pushes me away.
Her gray eyes stare straight into mine. Clear, purposeful. She states: “Chin up.”
And that’s it. My father appears with my brother. More aunts and uncles and cousins. Until with a last exhale, my mother passes, her hand tucked into my father’s, while my brother and I kneel with our heads against her feet. My father’s wail is the first to crack the silence. Then we are all sobbing and moaning: Oh my God, I am dying, I can’t live without you, why have you left us, oh God, please please I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband, sister, daughter, son.
We collapse over her body and howl our pain to the heavens. She is gone from us. Gone from me.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
Later, I clean out my mother’s sewing room. I don’t understand everything I find. But I realize enough.
More choppers roar across the minaret-studded skyline, and blast walls are built higher while roadside bombings become so common we barely flinch at the sound, just round our shoulders and scurry home.
My classmates exchange horrible tales of things going on in the outlying towns. A growing resurgence of Taliban fighters executing policemen, annihilating entire villages. Females dousing themselves in gasoline and setting themselves on fire to escape forced marriages. Even more women, schoolteachers, reporters, doctors, disappearing in the middle of the night.
And yet still we flit from coffee shop to coffee shop, post photos to our Facebook page, chat away on our cell phones. Because this is Kabul. The insurgents would never dare to attack here.
My brother, Farshid, disappears for longer and longer periods of time, returning home covered in dust and staggering in exhaustion. He cloisters himself in my father’s study with the rest of the men, where low whispers and harsh exclamations reverberate down the hall.
They are arguing next steps. My mother’s right—my father’s too gentle for his brothers’ avarice. They have worked too hard, built too much, to leave all their worldly goods behind. They will defend if they have to, bribe their way through the rest. There’s still plenty of time to determine best options, they rashly insist.
Never mind that they have made enemies of nearly everyone, including our neighbors. And while my father might be more kindly regarded, he’s also well known for his outspoken views on women’s rights. The current government finds him annoying; in the eyes of the Taliban, he’s downright dangerous.
In war, there are winners and losers. If Kabul falls, my family won’t be on the winning side.
One day, I discover Farshid striding through the courtyard with an armful of rifles, his expression so grim it hurts. There’s so much I want to tell him, but I remain bound by my mother’s words.
“Farshid,” I try. “Not now, Sabera.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
“Go to school, Sabera. Study, learn, grow that stubborn mind of yours that enjoys torturing me so much. You do your job. I’ll do mine. I will keep you safe, Sabera,” he states darkly. “Trust me.” “I will keep you safe, too, Farshid. Two halves of one whole yes?”
He smiles softly. “Two halves of one whole,” he agrees. And for a moment, we are kids again, running through my father’s orchard, and all is right with the world.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
And now, with the Blackhawks thundering overhead, and the packed streets of Kabul exploding with the frantic cries of desperate people, I take the gun from my brother’s lifeless hands. He has fallen outside the wall of our compound, his face a mask of blood and dust. I already know what I’ll find inside will be even worse.
And yet, it still won’t be the most terrible sight I’ve seen today, as I’ve raced frantically from the university to my father’s house.
One man. I can still feel his eyes upon me from down the crowded street. His hand reaching out. His final aching look. And then . . . a single crack of a rifle. All it takes to end a life. Destroy a future. Orphan a child.
There’s no time now. Maybe never will be again.
More screaming, families frantically forcing their way down streets that are no longer passable by car, lugging small children on their backs while dragging their most treasured possessions behind. Gunshots in the distance cause another terrified surge forward. Pockets of resistance being overrun. Petty grievances being settled. A young boy falls, an older relative scoops him up. The panicked mass of humanity churns ahead.
I enter my family’s compound. My father is sprawled across the front steps. These are not gunshot wounds. I can’t bear to think of it as I close his eyes, rock back on my heels, moaning.
“Oh God, why have you taken my daddy from me? I am dying, I can’t live without you. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been a better daughter. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
But my ablutions change nothing. He’s gone, while outside the chaos looms closer.
I continue on, finding one of my uncles in the front parlor, while down the hall my aunt Fahima is on her knees, wailing over her husband’s body. When I try to approach, she hits me so hard, I stumble backward. I leave her to her grief, as I search room by room, rifle clenched tightly in my hands. The fight was heavy and fierce. There are bodies of men I’ve never met and already hate, though they’re now gone from this earth.
The thunder of more choppers overhead, followed by the sound of explosions.
I end in my parents’ room. I touch the edge of the bed where my mother died. I feel her hand in mine. I remember the taste of my tears upon my lips. The words she spoke to me.
“Should the worst happen, people will want to take everything, but in the end, they will be allowed nothing.”
I understand now. I understand everything, including what there’s still left to lose.
I take a quick moment to sort through my mother’s jewelry box, then rummage through my father’s study. I select a single necklace from my mother. A single book from my father. I don’t expect to keep them, but they will serve their purpose along the way.
Then, I square my shoulders, raise my brother’s rifle, and face the front door.
“Chin up,” I murmur. I run for it.
When I was a girl, I dreamed.
When I became a woman, I woke up.
CHAPTER 1
My friend’s name is Sabera. She’s been gone for three weeks. You will find her. Here, try this.”
My hostess, Aliah, picks up a pretty blue bowl and holds it out. The coffee table in front of me is covered with similar dishes, all in deep jewel tones with scrolling gold patterns that shimmer beneath the overhead lights. The overall effect is less an offering of treats than a scattering of gems. It’s made me hesitant to touch anything.
Aliah’s two-bedroom apartment in downtown Tucson may be a relatively modest affair, but her hospitality is clearly world-class.
I dip my fingers into the proffered bowl, tentatively extracting a few pieces of dried fruit. They resemble shriveled white blackberries, which is to say I have no idea what they are. So far, that’s par for the course. I’ve spent the past ten minutes watching Aliah perform some kind of elaborate ceremony that resulted in the best cup of tea I’ve ever had—saffron, she informs me, which tastes just as good as it smells.
To accompany the tea is a dizzying array of nuts, dried fruits, crunchy chickpeas, and bright candies, all placed elegantly around a magnificent centerpiece of fresh whole fruit.
I sample the first wizened berry in my hand. Sweet, tart. I like it, follow it with more. Aliah nods in approval.
“Toot khoshk. White mulberries. They’re my favorite. Here.” She hands me a shiny green pear. “Eat, eat. It’s good for you.”
I bite into the fruit, juice dribbling down my chin, while Aliah takes my plate and dishes up little piles of almonds, raisins, and hard-coated candies, then hands it back. She’s very serious about this eating business, especially as there are just the two of us present, and she’s laid out enough snacks to feed an entire elementary school.
As new case meetings go, this one is off to an auspicious start. Of course, I met my last client at a maximum-security prison where she was serving time on Death Row. Not too hard to beat that.
Aliah had found me through a friend of a friend, which was pretty good considering I don’t have many friends. I was enjoying a long-overdue hiatus that had brought me all the way to Seattle when I got her call. Maybe I shouldn’t have answered the phone. Maybe it’s the true measure of my obsession that even happy and well rested for the first time in years, I clicked answer. Or maybe it’s the full degree of my self-destructive streak that led me to say yes to her, and no to him, even though it hurt us both.
I’m not one to look back. At least, for the past twenty-four hours that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
And now I’m at a charming tea party in Arizona.
My specialty is working missing persons cold cases. I can’t tell you exactly why I take on this particular mission versus that one. Given there are hundreds of thousands of people who’ve
disappeared at any given time, I might as well be throwing darts at a board. Money is not a factor—I don’t charge for my services as I’m not a trained professional, just a woman with an obsessive hobby. Geography is also a moot point—I don’t have a home, family, or real job, meaning I can go anywhere at any time.
Some people might find my lifestyle concerning. What kind of idiot dedicates herself to finding people she’s never met in cities she’s never frequented at the behest of complete strangers she’ll never see again? I’ve spent the past ten years trying to answer that question. If only I knew.
In Aliah’s case, the timeline sparked my interest. Her friend, a fellow Afghan, vanished three weeks ago. Definitely not my usual cold case terrain. In fact, not enough time had passed to motivate the police to search overly hard or alarm the husband enough to launch his own efforts.
The combination of searching for a missing refugee—exactly the kind of at-risk population that’s often overlooked—as well as possibly discovering someone still alive proved compelling enough to bring me here. That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m completely on board yet. In my line of work—okay, in my kind of hobby—it pays to be skeptical. People lie. Endangered people who live in marginalized communities often have a tendency to lie even more, with good reason.
“Look,” I attempt now, setting down my pear, sampling another one of the ridiculously good dried mulberries, “you say your friend has disappeared, but you seem to be the only one who’s worried about her. Why are you so certain she hasn’t run off with another man, taken a mental health break, whatever? Didn’t you say she’d just immigrated to the US? That’s got to be a little traumatic.”
“Of course, Sabera’s overwhelmed. In the beginning, we all
are. But she has a daughter. No mother leaves her child, especially not after fighting so hard to get here.”
“What do you mean by fight?”
“There are thirty million refugees in the world. Do you know how many are actually granted placement, a chance at a fresh start?”
“Not many?”
“Barely one percent. Sabera and her husband are the lucky few, and they know it.”
I nod. “Fair enough. But fortunate or not, their stress level has gotta be real.”
“She would not leave her daughter,” Aliah insists. “Zahra is only four. She needs her mother, especially now that they’re in a new country.”
“What about Sabera’s husband? The guy who’s not even looking for her yet?”
“It’s not a love match,” Aliah confirms, her scowl returning. “How long have they been married?”
“Four years.”
Married four years with a four-year-old kid. I can’t help but arch a brow. Aliah merely shrugs. “My understanding is that Isaad was a friend of her father’s. They had just gotten married when Kabul fell. Isaad was able to get Sabera out of the country. Her family was not so lucky.”
“What happened to them?” “They’re dead.”
“All of them?” I can’t quite keep the shock from my voice.
Aliah gives me a look. “Sabera is a refugee,” she repeats. “Not a tourist.”
“Walk me through this,” I say at last. “When did Sabera and her family arrive in Tucson? Where are they staying? When did you last see her, that kind of thing.”
“They arrived ten weeks ago from Abu Dhabi.” “Why Abu Dhabi?”
“After Kabul fell, they bounced from a temporary refugee camp in Islamabad to a larger one in Abu Dhabi, where they awaited official status. It’s a process.”
“And you went through something like this?” I ask Aliah, who appears closer to fifty than twenty.
“I went through something like this twenty-five years ago, the first time Kabul fell to the Taliban.”
Her tone is hard. I don’t blame her. “So how did you get to know Sabera?”
“There are local agencies that greet all arriving refugees and help them settle into their new lives. I’m a volunteer with one such agency here in Tucson. In particular, I try to assist with fellow Afghans. In this case, I prepared the Ahmadi family’s apartment for their arrival—stocked it with tea, basic spices, halal meats, yogurt, that sort of thing. Enough to see them through the first week, while they’re having to learn everything all at once.”
“Are they also in this complex?” I gesture outside to the U-shaped collection of yellow-painted stucco buildings bordered by pretty blooming flowers and odd-shaped cacti.
“Oh, no.” Aliah shakes her head. “There’s money for assistance, but it only lasts a few months. Most refugees start out in a far different level of housing. I got my first apartment because the last tenant was murdered in it.”
My eyes widen. “And the police are still certain nothing bad happened to your friend? I mean, given what you’re saying about where she was living . . .”
“The police aren’t certain of anything. They would have to genuinely consider Sabera’s disappearance to reach such a conclusion, and so far, they can’t be bothered.”
“Why?”
“All refugees must immediately get a job. Money is important, yes?”
I nod.
“The resettlement agencies help with job placement, too. They have connections with employers who are open to hiring more refugees—for example, they have had success with Afghan housekeepers in the past, so are willing to hire more. Plus it’s convenient to have their workforce living close together and speaking the same language. Means a large resort or construction company can send a single shuttle to round up all its workers in the morning.”
I nod again, having witnessed such things in other cities. “Sabera got a job in housekeeping at a big hotel. After the first week, the police went there to ask questions. Her fellow chambermaids reported that Sabera told them she was leaving her husband. She wanted a divorce. For the officers, that was good enough.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
A slight shrug. “It happens. Trauma, hardship, stress is very hard on marriages. Couples get here, where suddenly everything is new, they are new . . . It happens. But there’s no good reason for Sabera to leave her daughter behind.”
“Or she’s waiting to come back for her daughter when she has a place to stay. Could she afford an apartment on her own, given what you’re saying about limited funds?”
“It would be very difficult. Certainly, if that was her plan, she’d need to continue to work.”
“Except she hasn’t returned to work?”
“No.”
“Or her family?”
“No.”
I’m beginning to see Aliah’s point. “What does her husband say?”
Aliah’s lips thin into a hard line of disapproval. “He says he’s sure she’ll be back shortly.”
“She’ll be back shortly? Like what, she went out for a walk?
And the cops accept this?”
Another sniff of disdain, which is answer enough. “Has she reached out to you?” I ask.
“No.”
“Would she? If she needed help, had decided to leave her husband, would she contact you?”
A slight pause. “I would hope so. I’m divorced. She knows that.” Back to answers that aren’t really answers. I tilt my head, study my hostess again. She’s an attractive woman with wavy black hair cut short to frame her face. There are crinkles next to her dark eyes, lines furrowing her brow. But the effect enhances her beauty, gives an overall sense of strong will and determination. She’s seen some things, lived some experiences, survived some hardships.
She’s not about to break now.
Would that be comforting for a young female immigrant such as Sabera, or overwhelming?
I gotta believe the police had to be a tiny bit interested if Sabera hadn’t even returned to work. Unless her fellow chambermaids had provided additional details Aliah either doesn’t know or doesn’t want to share.
“How good is Sabera’s English?” I change tack.
“Excellent. Her mother’s people are from London. Sabera grew up speaking English as well as Dari and Pashto, which are the two most prominent languages in Afghanistan. She’s also a skilled linguist, fluent in many languages, not to mention dialects.”
“In other words, language is not an issue.”
“No. Nor is the culture shock as significant for her as it is for others. Her father taught at the university in Kabul, while her mother was a noted fashion designer. The household was very Westernized. Certainly, her parents were progressive enough to support Sabera pursuing her own studies. Though of course . . .”
“She grew up in a professional, affluent family.” I fill in the blanks. “Meaning it can’t be the easiest thing to now be living in a run-down apartment while working as a housekeeper.”
“This is not the end; it is the beginning,” Aliah recites. “Of?”
“Your new life in America. I was a nurse back in Afghanistan. When I first came here, I wasn’t allowed in the medical field. I washed dishes in the back of a restaurant for pennies on the dollar. People think all refugees can do is drive taxis or scrub toilets. No, it’s generally the only thing we’re allowed to do. Do you know how many doctors, lawyers, engineers, and pilots have come over from Afghanistan in the past few years? And yet our professional degrees and licenses are not accepted here.” She shrugs. “We must adapt. It’s not easy, but it’s the only option. And Sabera was committed to making life in this country work. For her daughter, if for nothing else.”
“Where was Sabera last seen?”
“Leaving work. She’d stayed late, missed the employee shuttle, so she was headed to the bus stop.”
“Did she get on?”
“You would have to ask the police that.”
I nod, thinking. “And she has a cell phone? Everyone does now.”
“Yes, with prepaid minutes.”
“Ahh, a woman after my own heart. No one’s tried pinging her GPS?”
“Again, you would have to ask the police.” “Or her husband?”
“Sure.” Aliah’s skepticism is palpable.
I pause, looking around me at this bountiful spread in a lovely, well-tended apartment with its stunning mix of richly colored tapestries and a comfy sofa set. If Aliah had started out scrubbing pots when she’d first arrived in this country, then she had adapted well indeed.
I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I have a final question, often the most telling. “Why?” I ask, keeping my gaze upon my hostess’s face.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to find her? The police aren’t interested, her husband isn’t concerned, but you care enough to reach out to a perfect stranger to help your friend. Why?”
“You find people who can’t be found,” Aliah states.
“I find people no one else is looking for.” I don’t know why it’s important for me to make that distinction, but it is.
“Exactly.” Aliah nods. “And no one else is looking. Do you know what it’s like to be an outsider? To watch your entire country disappear? To see your sisters, mothers, daughters be erased? As if they never even existed? That’s now life in Afghanistan. For the second time. It shouldn’t be life here. Sabera deserves better. And so does her daughter.”
I stare into Aliah’s dark, somber eyes. “Okay.”
“You will look for Sabera? I’ll pay you. Just tell me how much.”
“That’s not how this works. Let me be clear up front—I work
for the missing, in this case for Sabera. That’s the way I always do it. Family, friends, even the ones who invite me in.” I gesture at her. “Once I start asking questions, not everyone likes me so much anymore. That could grow to include you.”
Aliah tilts her chin defiantly. “I’m not afraid.”
“Excellent.” I set down my tea mug, rise to standing. “What do you think happened? Off the top of your head, what happened to your friend?”
“I . . .” A frown, that slight hesitation again. “I think maybe her husband. I can’t be sure, but then again, isn’t it always the husband?”
“Often seems that way.” But what makes her answer most interesting is the raw bravado behind it. It’s not clear to me that she believes what she’s saying as much as she wants to believe what she’s saying. Basically, I’ve no sooner said yes than my initial contact is dissembling.
A smart person would walk away now. A sane person would get a real job, maybe even an apartment, and if not a healthy and stable relationship, at least a cat.
And yet I don’t even hesitate. I hold out my phone and request Sabera’s mobile number, apartment address, recent photo, and name of her employer. Aliah gratefully provides those details, then adds the name of the family’s caseworker and housing coordinator from the resettlement agency.
Just like that, I’m back to work.
My name is Frankie Elkin, and finding missing people is what I do. When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking. For no money, no recognition, and most of the time, no help.
My mission has taken me all over the country, from inner-city neighborhoods to the wilds of Wyoming to even a brief stint in paradise. I’ve been cursed at, shot at, and nearly killed. I’ve watched people die. I’ve assisted with some of those deaths.
Clearly, I’m not a woman who learns from her mistakes.
Recently, I took a long-deserved hiatus to recover from a particularly horrific case, spending the time with a truly amazing guy. It was so good, it was even great. Yet still, when my phone rang . . .
From the very beginning, he whispered against my neck, I knew you weren’t the staying kind.
Because that’s also who I am. A woman with an inherent separateness I’ll never be able to shake. So that no matter how hard I try, I will always be the outsider looking in. Some people understand real life. Then there’s me.
A person who searches for the missing.
And who will always be the first to disappear.
Recent Afghan refugee Sabera Ahmadi was last seen exiting her place of work three weeks ago. The local police have yet to open a case, while her older, domineering husband seems unconcerned. Sabera’s closest friend, however, is convinced Sabera would never willingly leave her four‑year old daughter. At her insistence, missing persons expert Frankie Elkin agrees to take up the search through the broiling streets of Tucson. Just in time for a video of the young mother to surface—showing her walking away from the scene of a brutal double murder.
Frankie quickly notes there’s much more to the Ahmadi family than meets the eye. The father Isaad is a brilliant mathematician, Sabera a gifted linguist, and their little girl Zahra has an uncanny ability to remember anything she sees. Which given everything that has happened during the girl’s short life, may be a terrible curse. When Isaad also disappears under mysterious circumstances and an attempt is made on Zahra’s life, Frankie realizes she must quickly crack the code of this family’s horrific past.
Someone is coming for the Ahmadis. And violence is clearly an option. When everything is on the line, how far would you go to protect the ones you love?
Frankie is about to find out.
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