My mother instructed me when the worst happened, never let anyone peer into my soul.
Use others.But never give too much of yourself away.
Perhaps they were both right in the end.
I have written this to you, Zahra, along with the other diary entries and assorted ramblings, because like any child who’s lost a parent too soon, I know how uncertain the future is.
I have borne witness to so much death and tragedy.
And yet from the first instant I held you in my arms, I have also experienced the greatest love and deepest joy.
I would’ve liked to have watched you grow up, my sweet child, to experience the expanding years and significant life events I never had with my own mother.But maybe, much like my maadar jan, my days have always been numbered.
Now, Zahra, I will give you the same advice my parents gave me:
Trust in Isaad.He kept his word, claiming you from the moment of your birth, before falling hopelessly in love with your clever and curious mind.
He will never willingly let anyone harm you, including me.
Trust in yourself.You are descended from warriors.The men in our family foolishly believe that distinction belongs to them, but it is the women, going back generations, who have made the bravest decisions and fought the toughest battles.
Remember, my sweet girl:
All the love you’ve ever wanted, you have.
All the courage you’ve ever needed, you possess.
All the secrets of the universe you’ve hoped to learn, you hold in your amazing mind.
My darling Zahra…
Chin up.
CHAPTER 15
BY THE TIMEDARYL DROPSme 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 THEAhmadis’ 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.
