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

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.