Page 15 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

D ARYL DOES THE DRIVING, HEAVY on the gas, light on the brakes. Roberta follows close behind. It’s still a solid ten minutes, which Aliah spends trying to reach Isaad Ahmadi. Failing that, she calls Sabera’s cell phone, only to disconnect moments later, muttering in frustration.

“The mailbox is full. I can’t even leave a message.”

Given Sabera’s been out of touch for three weeks, that doesn’t surprise me. It does imply that others are still trying to reach her. Including her husband, Isaad? Or the man trying to snatch her daughter? Or the two men brained to death in a warehouse?

I don’t want to think about that. My current nightmares are bad enough.

By the time we arrive, it appears half of the tenants are milling about the parking lot in various states of agitation.

The men look up sharply as Daryl careens to a halt, several adopting defensive stances, hands fisted by their sides.

These are people who don’t expect assistance, only new levels of threat.

Daryl doesn’t even have the vehicle in park before Aliah is bolting out the door and heading straight for the parents of the roller-skating children.

I’m assuming it was their little girl the man approached and her big brother who took on a grown adult twice his size.

Certainly, that tracks with what I observed yesterday.

Many in the assembled group relax a fraction at the older woman’s approach. Others, from a melting pot of countries, cue off their neighbor’s ease, releasing clenched fists.

Until Daryl steps out of the car, at which point a murmur of alarm flares through the crowd, just in time for Roberta to come barreling into the space behind him; then a black-and-white patrol car squeals to a halt at the curb.

Given the reputation of policing in so many parts of the world, mothers quickly start ushering their children away.

Aliah doesn’t bother to explain. She has attention only for the Afghan couple, while across the way, I spot Nageenah standing in the doorway of her unit, diaper-clad baby once more perched on her hip.

She’s clearly anxious, but with two other children tucked inside, she can’t abandon her post.

While Aliah starts talking rapidly to the parents in their own language, I cross to Nageenah.

“Are you okay?”

She nods. Her gaze is fixed on the patrol car, tracking the uniform exiting the vehicle. When the officer turns out to be a young Black female, Nageenah slowly exhales.

“I did not see anything,” she murmurs, hitching her drooling son higher on her hip.

“I was in the living room with the children. It faces the rear of the property. I knew nothing until I heard Pazir yelling and then a car thumping over the sidewalk. I had no idea. What if the man had come here? What if he still wants Zahra?”

Her agitation ratchets up another notch.

“Have you heard from Zahra’s father?” I ask. “Do you know when he’s returning?”

“No. I texted earlier, but never received a reply. I tried calling again. Nothing.”

“And Zahra? Your other boy? Are they okay?”

“Their morning has been wooden blocks and workbooks. The rest of this, they have no idea.”

Just then two little faces appear in the hallway behind her, a dark-eyed boy in a red dinosaur T-shirt and a dark-haired girl with impossibly huge gray eyes.

She peers at me solemnly, while the boy tugs on the hem of his mother’s shirt.

The baby glances down, squeals something at his brother.

The boy responds by pinching the baby’s big toe.

“Taimur!” Nageenah reprimands sharply.

Taimur grins, but releases his brother’s foot. In return, the baby waves a slobbery fist at him. More squealing ensues.

I squat down till I’m eye level with Zahra.

She’s not said a word, just stands a few feet back, right shoulder tucked against the wall.

I have vague memories of babysitting as a teenager, but primarily so I could steal the parents’ booze.

I would refill the bottles with water, which might have covered my tracks if I hadn’t ended most evenings passed out drunk.

Needless to say, there wasn’t a huge demand for my services, and to this day, I know next to nothing about kids.

Now I study Sabera’s daughter, while she studies me back.

What is it Ashley the housing coordinator had said?

Zahra could be the poster child for refugee children with her stunning features and solemn expression.

She isn’t just beautiful, she’s haunting, like an old soul peering at the world through a child’s eyes.

I want to tell her everything will be all right. I will find her mother, I will bring her home, I will save her family.

But I already think she knows better. I’m the one with the questions, while this little girl has all the answers; she’s simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

Aliah arrives behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see that Roberta and the uniformed officer are now talking to the other parents.

I’m assuming asking for a description of the subject, taking down basic information.

By now, I can predict their responses, the same the world over—I don’t remember, I didn’t see, it all happened so fast.

Personally, I have only one question for Pazir and his family. I’m curious who will ask it first.

“Are you all right?” Aliah arrives at the unit, attention focused on Nageenah.

The baby is now kicking away at her hip, trying to play with his big brother.

Aliah plucks the younger boy out of his mother’s arms and folds his drooling form into her own.

The baby babbles in delight. Nageenah sighs in relief. So that’s how it’s done.

A slight tug of my hair.

Zahra. Standing directly in the doorway now, so close her nose is nearly touching mine.

God, those eyes. The mysteries of the universe, the heartbreak of eons past, the sadness of homeless, countryless children everywhere.

“My name is Frankie,” I murmur.

She stares at me. Stares, stares, stares until I can feel each of my sins, all of my secrets slowly being stripped bare.

I let her take my full measure. The losses I have felt, the pain I’ve inflicted, the sad little girl who still lives deep inside me, longing for her father to sober up, wishing for her mother to come home.

The damaged woman I’ve become, unable to stay too long or connect too deeply because the sheer anxiety of such intimacy makes me want to drink.

Zahra nods as if that makes sense to her. Maybe it does.

Then she states in perfectly clear English: “A lock to a key for a key that has no lock.”

She leans closer, whispers in my ear: “You must find it.”

Then she turns and vanishes back down the hall, Nageenah’s older son scampering to catch up.

I glance up to find both Aliah and Nageenah regarding me.

“There is a word,” Nageenah says, “for an extremely talented young child?”

“Prodigy?”

“Yes, that’s it. Isaad is brilliant with numbers. Sabera has skills with language. Zahra… she never forgets. Words on a page, dates on a calendar. Whatever she sees, she carries in her head.” A slight hesitation. “Her life will not be an easy one.”

I consider what I’ve learned about the fall of Kabul and life in refugee camps, then contemplate what that might mean for a four-year-old who remembers everything.

“How absolutely horrible,” I murmur at last.

Neither woman disagrees.