Page 38 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING feeling completely disoriented. The sun is streaming in through a crack in the curtains, and I can hear a noise that is both mystifying and familiar. Children’s laughter. Coming from outside, along with the sound of splashing water.

I lie beneath the lazy twirl of the ceiling fan and take a moment to listen.

More splashing. A girl’s high-pitched squeal.

The lower murmur of accompanying adults.

Zahra and company. Daryl, I’m guessing, probably Aliah and maybe Roberta as well.

All taking advantage of Wonder Boy’s toy-stocked swimming pool.

If I continue to stay right here, I can close my eyes and pretend I’m really a guest at a luxurious resort.

Maybe on vacation from my high-stress job.

And accompanied, naturally, by my sexy boyfriend who’s gone to fetch coffee.

Soon he’ll be back to rejoin me in bed, where we’ll wake up properly with the help of caffeinated beverages and toe-curling sex.

Afterward, I will lie with my head on his chest while he strokes my hair.

He’ll tell me he loves me and has never been so happy.

And I’ll say… Please don’t ever leave. Please come back even after I push you away. Please know me and understand me and forgive me, because I still don’t know how to do any of those things for myself.

I don’t realize I’m crying till I feel the first drop of moisture trail down my cheek. I swipe at it immediately, mortified to find myself so easily undone by pure fantasy. What is wrong with me these days?

Then I picture Vaughn and the look on his face as he drove me to the bus stop, unloaded my single bag, and handed it over to me. Understanding. Empathy. Acceptance.

I’m not sure which hurts more.

I roll onto my side and sob in earnest, ugly, messy tears I do my best to get out once and for all.

Then I sit up, wipe off my face, and prepare for the day ahead.

brEAKFAST THIS MORNING involves golden biscuits smothered in sausage gravy.

Poolside play completed, Daryl is on his second helping, looking uncharacteristically casual in red swim trunks and a frayed V-neck T-shirt that shows off heavily muscled arms and an incredibly furry chest. Kind of like a bear dressed for a day at the beach.

Aliah is in her usual jeans and flowing top—apparently Daryl was in charge of pool duty. Zahra sits between them, smothering a split biscuit in strawberry jam—not her first, judging by the smears of sticky red adorning her smiling face.

I head straight for coffee, down the first few sips while standing.

Genni is frying up some eggs. She gives me a questioning look, but I shake my head, not ready for food just yet.

Petunia, I noticed, is back to sunbathing in front of the glass sliders.

She’s keeping a wary look on the small human, but with Zahra safely occupied at the table, all is well for the moment.

“How did you sleep?” I ask Aliah at last, pulling out a chair.

“Like a baby. This place is amazing.”

“And you, Zahra? Looks like you discovered the pool.” I flash the girl a smile.

Her still-wet purple swim shirt and trunks are creating a puddle on the kitchen floor.

Far from being put out, Genni appears completely enthralled with her new pint-sized charge.

If you like to cook and clean, I suppose a four-year-old would be a source of happiness.

Now Zahra nods in earnest, then shoves half a biscuit in her mouth, adding to the butter dotting her chin.

This is the most childlike I’ve ever seen her.

Like an honest to goodness preschooler. I wonder how many of these moments she’s had, and given what’s happened with her parents, how many more she’ll have next.

Aliah has a fierce expression on her face as she watches the girl lick crumbs from her fingers.

Whatever happens, I have no doubt she’ll fight for Zahra’s best interests.

Which is good, because I don’t have great feelings about how this case will end.

The body count is getting very high, the threat of horrific violence too real.

Whatever’s going on here, the people involved are playing for keeps.

I take another sip of steaming black coffee. Clear my throat. Then get to it.

“At this point,” I begin, “we have more questions than answers.”

I glance around the table. Receive several nods, a look of genuine small-child curiosity.

“There’s only one person who can tell us what’s truly going on.”

More nods.

“I say we stop searching. Instead, we use what we know to get that person to come to us.”

I don’t directly address Sabera by name, given Zahra’s presence, but the adults know who I’m talking about.

“Let’s build a code, working off what we saw in the townhouse, and post it in the window of your deli, Aliah. A time and place to meet. See what happens next.”

More interested expressions.

Zahra, who appears to be following the conversation perfectly despite my best attempts, provides a single, emphatic nod.

I’D TAKEN PHOTOS of Sabera’s frantic scribbles covering the walls of her hideout in order to analyze them later for evidence of other riddles, clues, perhaps a nice simple statement: find me here. No such luck.

Now, I print out a few for samples, while Genni produces half an art studio from seemingly thin air. There are glitter pens, collections of neon-bright markers with crazy fruit scents, and sheet after sheet of stickers, not to mention construction paper in about every shade imaginable.

“What?” she asks as Daryl and I stare in amazement. “I got friends with kids. And let me tell you, I’m definitely the cool aunt.”

I sort through the mad colored mess, feeling a little guilty when I settle upon a plain white poster board and a single black Sharpie.

Good news, Zahra quickly claims the rest. She and Genni start competing for who can draw the prettiest flower while Daryl, Aliah, and I scratch out various attempts at encoding a simple message.

We decide to follow Sabera’s approach of embedding lowercase letters that combine to spell out key words.

It’s what she used to communicate about Zahra—“i am her sword”—so it seems fitting to repeat.

Except we’re trying to determine a meet place and time, which leaves us with how to share the right numbers in a jumble of digits, and oh, yeah, where to meet?

Sabera’s apartment is too dangerous. Aliah’s home and business feel similarly vulnerable. We could do the compound, but what if someone else sees the message and discovers Zahra hiding here? At the moment, this feels like our one safe place, and we’re loathe to give it up.

“Dance studio,” Daryl offers up abruptly. “Where Roberta and I meet for ballroom. It’s part of a busy strip mall. Public. Plenty of people, plus the parking lot is well lit and heavily surveilled.”

“In other words, lots of witnesses to deter any overt acts of violence.”

“In theory.”

Aliah looks up the address and determines it’s part of a major bus line. She nods her agreement.

Setting a meet time for today seems too early—we’re not sure when, how, if Sabera will see our poster. Tomorrow’s a safer bet, except for the same issues—when, how, if Sabera gets our message.

“Daily,” Daryl determines. “One of us will show up every evening at seven P.M. until she appears. Covers the most bases.”

Aliah and I agree. We get busy with a fine collection of gibberish that includes the right mix of lowercase letters.

I can’t help myself; I include the phrase CHIN UP several times.

It’s what Sabera wrote the most, almost obsessively.

I don’t know what it means, but clearly it’s significant to her.

I want her to know that we heard. Whatever story she has to tell, we’re ready to listen.

In the end, Aliah copies our notes onto the poster board in a beautiful, flowing script, with touches of embellishment.

“To make it more artistic,” she provides. “It will be, after all, hanging in a business window.”

Makes sense to me.

Our attempts have taken a solid hour, but stepping back and studying, the finished result seems worth it.

Zahra leaves her collection of glittery scribbles to check our work.

She climbs onto the chair in front of the poster, examines it for a full minute.

I can practically see her eyes scanning across each line, copying each letter and word, filing them away in the great vault of her mind.

Her face wears a nearly blank expression.

The world’s most adorable database, computing away.

In the end, she picks up the black Sharpie and before any of us think to stop her, she leans over the poster and adds a line. Then another and another. She builds a box in the lower corner of the poster, her movements slow and studied, the tip of her tongue pursed between her lips in concentration.

The box gets split into many little boxes, until she has created a five-by-five matrix. Then, she places a number in the middle of each square. Slow and focused again. She’s not simply re-creating something she remembers; this is an image she’s clearly practiced.

Directed by her father, or mother? Someone else?

When she’s done, she moves to the next corner and laboriously builds a new box. Then creates a third at the top of the poster, dead center. Three five-by-five matrixes, arranged like points of a triangle, each bearing a different collection of numbers.

None of us says a word.

When she’s done, she sets down the Sharpie, sits back in her chair, and nods once, as if satisfied.

“Zahra, did your father teach you that?” Aliah asks softly.

Zahra regards her with her too old, too serious gray eyes: “Two halves of one whole,” she announces.

Then she dismounts from the chair and heads around the table for more glitter.