“Excuse me,” I say brightly.“I’m a friend of Aliah’s.She sent me here to meet with someone.”
At the mention of Aliah’s name, the tense line of the woman’s shoulders relents slightly.Ashley had said Aliah was one of their go-to volunteers.I’m banking on these residents having met her as well, and that the reference to a mutual friend will help ease their fears.
The boy glances from me to his mom, back to me again.His sister’s sobs have slowed to a wet hiccupping sound.She doesn’t appear seriously hurt, just the minor scrapes and scratches that define most childhoods.
“My name is Frankie Elkin,” I volunteer in the same super cheerful tone.I’m friend, not foe.Talk to me!
I’m not convinced the woman is buying it, but she hasn’t grabbed both her children and bolted.I’ll take the win.
“I’m looking for the Ahmadis.Isaad and Sabera.Can you point me to their apartment?”
Now the woman does move.She walks directly toward me, her left hand shifting by her side.I catch the gesture.She’s waving her children inside.The boy helps his little sister to her feet, her skates held in his hand.He’s still wearing his, but has no problem navigating both himself and his sister to the open doorway.He lingers just outside, still staring at me.
Eight years old but ready to come to his mother’s defense.I wonder what he’s seen to have instilled such a level of hypervigilance at such a young age.I’m not like Ashley.My imagination is horrific enough.
“Who are you?”The woman’s accent sounds Middle Eastern, but I don’t have enough experience to be certain.
“Frankie Elkin—”
“Who are you?”
I pause, getting her point.She doesn’t care about my name.She wants to know my business here.Which is a good question.What is my business here?
Most people have been lied to enough in their lives.It’s my general policy not to add to the carnage.
I go with: “Aliah is worried about Sabera.She asked me to check on her.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t ease, her attention flicking from the luxury vehicle back to me.I may need to ask Daryl to find something less conspicuous.
A man has appeared in the doorway, his white collared shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, as if he just woke up.Or had possibly been dragged out of bed by his two frightened children.He steps outside, taking up position next to his wife.
“Isaad is not here,” he states.His English is clearer, but his regard no less suspicious.
“He’s out?At work?”
“He’s not here.”
There’s a definitiveness to those words that is starting to worry me.
“The Ahmadis live here, right?This is where Aliah told me to find them.”
“He is gone.”
“Maybe I should come back tomorrow?”I’m trying to understand the nature of Isaad’s, and presumably his daughter Zahra’s, absence.As in ran out to grab dinner, or packed up and departed for good?
The neighbor merely shrugs.Clearly, he has no intention of giving anything away.Though his gaze has now darted to the same door twice, which is useful enough.
I make a show of nodding in acknowledgment and turning back toward Daryl’s idling vehicle.From this angle I can see the front window of the unit in question.It’s covered in cheap plastic blinds.I pause for a moment, my hand on the car door, waiting to catch some sign of life, say two slats being pushed apart so Isaad can peer out.
Nothing.I sigh and declare defeat just in time to hear from behind me, “Excuse me.”
I twist around to discover the original family has gone inside, but now a young woman has materialized in the doorway of another apartment, holding a drooling toddler on her hip.She has high cheekbones set in a stunning face, with the kind of thick lashes women spend a fortune on mascara to achieve.She appears to be mid-twenties, and given the hard line of her compressed lips, a woman who means business.
“You are looking for Isaad and Sabera?”
I nod.
“You are not government.You are not military.You are not police.Not with that vehicle.”She cocks her head to study me further.“Who sent you?”
