Page 10 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)
I take a break from dabbing the ceiling to regard Ashley. “How did Sabera seem with her daughter? Did she engage…” I hesitate, picking my words carefully. “Or hold herself separate?”
“You encounter many traumatized people?” Ashley asks me levelly. “I mean suffering from serious PTSD. Kids, parents, individuals subject to years of stress, terror, uncertainty?”
I don’t shy away from her gaze. “Yes.”
“Sabera did the right things, said the right things. If her daughter grabbed her hand, she held it. If her husband asked a question, she answered it. But at the same time, she remained removed. There, but not there. For the record, it’s not the first time I’ve seen such behavior.”
I nod, recalling the Sabera I’d studied in Aliah’s photo. Present, but separate. Like Ashley, I’m familiar with such behavior. Including from myself.
I switch gears. “Do you like him? The husband, Isaad?”
“I don’t know him. I’ve interacted with him maybe three or four times, mostly about tactical issues. Their air conditioner wasn’t working properly. I walked him through how to contact his landlord, draft an email requesting repair work, that kind of thing.”
“Did he seem uncomfortable talking to a female?” I ask.
She shrugs. “We’re given guidance on various cultures and religions. I know there’s no physical contact between men and women—don’t greet with a handshake or tap the husband on the shoulder, that kind of thing. But Isaad seemed more comfortable in my presence than many.”
I’m still watching her. “But did you like him?” I know I’m repeating myself, but I also think Ashley isn’t truly answering my question.
Her slight hesitation again. “Have you met him?”
“No.”
“But you will?”
“I hope to speak to him sooner rather than later.”
She nods. “You do that. My understanding is that he’s regarded as a brilliant mind in his field. Certainly, he can be very charming when he wants something. And… not so charming, when feeling denied. Which, given his change in life circumstance…”
I think I get it. I also hear the sound of a car pulling up outside, the purr of a clearly well-tuned engine. I don’t have to look outside to know Daryl has returned.
“Your chariot awaits,” Ashley murmurs. And for a moment, her shoulders slump, her expression once again taking on its strained look.
“I can stay longer.”
That faint smile. “It will never be long enough.” She cocks her head sideways. “Though, somehow, I think you understand that better than most.”
“I can return tomorrow afternoon. Bring extra supplies. Maybe some extra muscle.” I’m already thinking of Daryl, whom I’m willing to bet is a giant softy.
But even as I say the words, I see the doubt on Ashley’s face.
My mission often feels overwhelming, but I’m only ever trying to help one person.
She is literally trying to assist a community of thirty million. Her poor cat indeed.
I finish up the ceiling, set down my spray bottle and sponge. There’s no easy way to walk away, but we’ve both picked the loads we’re determined to carry. Sometimes, the best thing to offer a fellow warrior is faith in their fortitude.
“I’ve left messages for Sabera’s caseworker,” I say, “and the volunteer coordinator at your resettlement agency.”
“Who are much too busy to call you back,” Ashley provides.
“Even about her? A woman missing three weeks? None of you are worried about her?”
“Worried? Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?” Ashley’s turn to set down her cleaning supplies. “I’m worried about all of them. Every single person I’ve placed in every single apartment. I don’t have enough hours, days, or headspace for the amount of worry I carry in my heart.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Her tone is hard now, her gaze piercing. I imagine weaker humans quaking before that look. But I can hold my own.
“I’m here to help,” I state. “To find Sabera Ahmadi and bring her home to her family, or at least discover the kind of answers that will offer some comfort. And I’m staying till I get this job done.”
“I won’t pretend to understand you, Frankie Whomever, but I will pray for you.” Ashley bites her lower lip, stares at some point just past my ear. I sense some kind of internal battle…
“We’re not supposed to talk about the families,” she states abruptly. “That’s one of the issues you’re encountering, why Staci and Carlos won’t call you back.”
I wait.
“Privacy matters. These people aren’t going to just grant us their trust; we must earn it.”
I don’t say a word.
“Sabera and her husband are Muslims. Among other things, most practicing Muslims don’t drink.” That pause again. I keep my face blank, my body language neutral.
“The last time I saw Sabera… I would swear she smelled of alcohol. She noticed, mumbled something about having to deal with spilled wine in one of the rooms she was cleaning. I know sometimes people leave booze behind in the hotel rooms. Once, she gifted me a bottle of champagne. But… her words were too slow, her movements awkward. She was impaired in some manner, I’m certain of it.
And Isaad knew it, too. The expression on his face—he was not happy with her. ”
Ashley looks at me. “I don’t pretend to know what Sabera has gone through,” she repeats. “But from the little I’ve witnessed… There are things she has seen, things she knows, we should both be grateful to never have in our heads.”
Ashley picks her sponge back up, opens the next kitchen drawer. And after a final moment, I exit the apartment.