In response, a card materializes between his fingers in the front seat.He hands it over.
One side bears a brightly colored cartoon—Marge Simpson with her signature pile of blue hair and string of red pearls.On the back, a single sentence.
Marge says she’s sorry.
The front illustration bears a hastily scrawled autograph across the bottom: Matt Groening.
I look up to meet Daryl’s eyes in the rearview mirror.“Seriously?”
Daryl shrugs.“Bart is… Bart.And he really did feel bad about Marge escaping.”
“Bad enough to furnish an entire apartment for a resettlement agency?”
“Gamers.Go big or go home.”
We get out to inspect the move in progress.
Upon our approach, Ashley, the housing coordinator, throws her arms around my neck.“Oh my goodness, you did exactly as you promised.”
I self-consciously wave my hand at Daryl.“It’s really more his—”
Ashley flings herself at Daryl, who does his best not to stagger beneath a hundred pounds of pretty young thing.
“We got this employer, Boy Wonder, er Bart, er…”
Ashley gives him a giant squeeze.“God loves both of you!”
Daryl appears slightly terrified.“Just go with it,” I direct him.He nods weakly.
Turns out, Bart had graciously provided furniture for not just the original apartment where I’d scrubbed at blood spatter, but for the infamous murder unit Ashley had already snagged for an incoming family.I’m not sure who picked the pieces, but someone did a great job.Nice-looking to be sure, but also sturdy and durable.Solid building blocks from which to create a new life.
There’s still some setup at the crime scene unit to be done.Daryl sheds his jacket and we get to work, unrolling rugs, assembling beds, unloading kitchen supplies, with Ashley keeping up a steady chatter.I drift in and out of attention; busy work makes for the best thinking.
Sabera, Isaad, and their daughter, Zahra.Who what when why and how.An entire family, uprooted from their homeland, bounced around other countries and then sling-shotted here.We all believe we know their hopes and dreams.But do we?Can we?
Safety and security are basic needs.Once you move beyond that… Could Sabera really be doing all this because she desires freedom that badly?Did Isaad disappear because his need to control his wife ran that high?And what about little Zahra with her solemn face and crazy, eerie riddles?
A lock to a key for a key that has no lock.I can’t wrap my head around it.Mostly, I’m haunted by the intent sound of Zahra’s voice as she delivered that line.Memorized it?But from where?
Ashley, appearing at my shoulder.
“Umm… Frankie.”
“No worries.Almost done.”I billow out a thin blanket, tuck it around the twin-sized mattress.
“Frankie—”
Her insistent tone gets to me.I regard her directly, not bothering to keep the impatience from my face.She shifts uncomfortably.
“Nageenah just called.Two men are at the apartment asking questions about Sabera.Close-cropped hair, military posture.Nageenah is concerned.She said you’d know why.”
My thoughts go immediately to the incident that happened yesterday, how the young boy had described the man looking for Zahra as similar to the guards from a refugee camp.
“Daryl,” I call out.
“Already heard.”
We don’t bother with an explanation.Daryl grabs his jacket and we race for the car.
