Page 19 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

B Y THE TIME D ARYL DROPS me off at the Starbucks, I’m genuinely anxious, my white T-shirt glued to my skin in a combination of hopped-up nerves and blistering afternoon heat.

I hadn’t exaggerated to the detective earlier—I’m acutely aware that night is drawing closer and with it, my first care and feeding of snakes.

If the trick is to face your fear, my fear needs to do a better job of acknowledging the moment and relinquishing its hold.

Instead, I can feel my dread ratcheting up by the hour.

I don’t want to devolve into a quivering shell of humanity come dinnertime, but I might not have a choice in the matter.

I’m also uncertain about the conversation ahead.

The cost of this meeting—two twin mattresses, pledged to Ashley the housing coordinator—is a promise I’m not sure how to keep.

I genuinely do my best not to lie, but this might be one case where I promised more than I can deliver.

It doesn’t make me feel great about things.

I SPY THE Ahmadis’ assigned caseworker, Staci Lynn, almost immediately. She sits near the back, as far away from a window as possible in the corner coffee shop. Currently she has her head down, studying something on her phone. Her dark hair cascades around her in a silky blue-black waterfall.

Then she looks up. At first glance, she’s maybe late twenties, early thirties.

Her white-collared shirt frames delicate features and alabaster skin, while her long hair serves as a veil, shifting to reveal a sliver of cheekbone here, a corner of mouth there.

She turns toward me, and the strands sway back enough to reveal the entirety of her face.

Ashley had prepared me, so I manage not to flinch. It’s still a startling sight. The scar begins at her left temple, pours down her cheek, neck, and jawline, then disappears beneath the collar of her shirt.

I had assumed thick, ropy markings. This, however, looks more like a slow melting, skin dissolving into skin, layer by painful layer as the acid did its gruesome work.

I approach the resettlement agency’s social worker. “Staci? I’m Frankie Elkin. Thanks for coming. Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

She gestures at the steaming travel mug in front of her. I flush, feeling even more discombobulated. I need to get my head in the game. The situation regarding Sabera’s disappearance seems to be evolving very quickly. If her daughter is also now in danger, I can’t afford to be this far behind.

I head to the counter long enough to order coffee. Not knowing the system, I bog down the line, causing the addicts behind me to grow restless, including one dark-haired young man who shoots daggers at me.

Finally, I make it back to the table, where Staci has resumed scrolling through her phone.

“I need you to sit on my right,” she states.

I pause from pulling out a chair to her left, make the shift.

“I don’t have much of my outer ear.” She pulls back her hair.

Sure enough, where there would usually be a perfectly formed shell, she has what appears to be a diminutive flap of cartilage.

“The external part of the ear, the pinna, helps funnel sound and amplify noise. In theory, I can still hear on my left side, but everything sounds muffled. It’s better to have people address me on my right. ”

I nod. She lets her hair drop back in place. She has deep blue eyes, I realize. Pre-attack, she would’ve resembled a young Elizabeth Taylor. Post-attack, she remains stunning.

“Would you like to touch it?” she asks evenly.

I jerk back, not realizing how much I was leaning toward her. “I’m sorry—”

“I’m used to it. Children sometimes want to touch it.

Their parents are horrified, but I don’t mind.

My scars have left me looking different.

People are afraid of things that are different.

The kids touch it. They feel that it’s just skin, shiny and a little bumpy, but not that special in the end.

They move on, let it go. Whereas their parents will continue to sneak glances every single time we meet.

Personally, I prefer the children’s approach. ”

“Ashley said you were a victim of an acid attack.”

“On a public bus. An older woman walked up to me. Yelled something about sin and flesh and the workings of the devil, then threw acid on my face. I was sixteen.”

I blink. “I’m guessing she’s nutty as a fruitcake plus mad as a hatter?”

“Also totally off her rocker. She was found guilty, sent away to some institution. And I spent the next few years becoming a close personal acquaintance of my plastic surgeon.” Staci gestures to her face. “This is six surgeries later. Clearly, he’s a miracle worker.”

“Obviously.”

Finally, a faint smile. “Ashley says you want to know about Sabera Ahmadi. She’s missing, possibly in danger.”

“Not to mention just this morning, someone tried to kidnap her kid.”

“Zahra? Is she okay?”

“For now.”

“And Isaad?”

“No one knows. He took off yesterday. No one’s seen him since. Look, I understand you’re not supposed to talk about the families you serve, but you’re the Ahmadis’ caseworker, right? You’re the one who’s worked with them the most since they arrived in Tucson.”

She shrugs. “I’ve assisted them with everything from opening their first bank account to teaching them how to ride the bus. Not to mention, I’ve purchased blouses for Sabera, blue jeans for Zahra, and socks for Isaad. So, yes, I suppose I do know them better than most.”

“You could buy socks for Isaad?” I’m genuinely startled. “Doesn’t that violate some cultural rule, a non-familial female handling garments for a male?”

“My role is considered professional. Given families arrive here with nothing but the clothes on their backs, the men are much less concerned about the source of their boxers than having the right garments for work.”

“Well then, I’ve definitely come to the right person.

” I set down my coffee and regard her intently.

“I really need your help. Sabera, Isaad, Zahra really need your help. I understand there are expectations of privacy. But for their sake… Please talk to me. I’m not lying when I say their lives could depend on it. ”

Staci exhales deeply. I can see her compassion, a woman who was once victimized herself and now works on behalf of the world’s most vulnerable.

There are the rules of her job, then the spirit behind them—always put the family’s needs first. I know what I believe the Ahmadis need most right now; I just have to hope Staci reaches the same conclusion.

Finally: “Given the circumstances… Ask what you want to ask. I’ll see what I can answer.”

I don’t blink an eye before pouncing. “Have you ever caught Sabera drinking? I know she’s not supposed to consume alcohol as a practicing Muslim, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t.”

Staci raises her travel mug. Takes a sip. I’m worried I’ve already entered a no-fly zone, when she murmurs, “Your question is too simple.”

“Too simple? What do you mean?”

“The real issue, faced by all refugees—how well are they adapting to their new lives.”

“Okay, how well is Sabera adapting to her new life?”

“And that’s where things get complicated.

As a caseworker, my primary goal is to protect my families.

And I don’t just mean from nosy outsiders.

” She gives me a look. “I mean from the employer who demands they work overtime without additional compensation. Or the landlord who tells them the broken air conditioner is their responsibility, or the bank that tacks on a dozen extra fees while saying that’s standard.

“For many refugees, who’ve always lived with their extended families in a place where things have been done the same way for generations, America is less a land of opportunity than a shock to their souls.

They’re trying to learn a new city, a new culture, and a million new systems, from mass transportation to how to shop at a grocery store to how to file their taxes, et cetera.

To say it’s bewildering is an understatement.

To hope it will all go well is na?ve. There are pitfalls everywhere, even for a well-educated, urbanized couple such as Isaad and Sabera.

“The latest challenge for my Muslim refugees—I’ve built a network of employers at local resorts who appreciate their work ethic and are respectful of their religion, just in time to have hotel guests start attacking the females for wearing hijabs.

Honestly, because life isn’t already hard enough?

” Staci rolls her eyes, thumps down her coffee.

“Here’s the deal: when a family such as the Ahmadis arrive, Ashley the housing coordinator finds them their first apartment and gets them settled in.

A volunteer such as Aliah helps teach them the local ropes while connecting them with the larger Afghan society.

My job is to assist them with everything else.

Get them enrolled in the proper ESL class at Pima.

Guide them as they establish financial credentials.

Walk them through employment options. For the men, it mostly boils down to construction/landscape work or driving for hire.

Isaad definitely isn’t a dirty-his-own-hands kind of guy and had the resources to buy a used car, so Uber Eats it is.

For the females, there’s some restaurant work, but mostly housekeeping at local establishments.

Sabera didn’t mind, not to mention she was accustomed to working outside the home.

For both of them, given their English skills and advanced education, I felt there would be better opportunities ahead. At the moment, however…”

“This is not the end,” I repeat what Aliah had told me during our first meeting. “It is the beginning.”