CHAPTER
FIVE
For the next hour, Asher tried to still his impatience as they went over everything several times until the detectives were satisfied there was nothing more to be learned. He’d accounted for his own location that morning, his relationship to the deceased—which was he’d spoken to her on the phone exactly once—and given the description of the attacker as best he could. “He was about six feet tall, maybe a hundred ninety pounds,” Asher said, “but he had on a black ski mask and black gloves, so I’m not sure about race or skin tone. He had on jeans and a black sweatshirt.” He paused. “He never said a word, so I can’t tell you whether he had an accent or not. Other than that, I can’t help you.”
Marcus Lehman had arrived and promised to take care of everything else—including telling Sharon’s husband. He left and the detectives seemed to be satisfied their stories lined up with each other and dismissed them before returning to Brooke’s office to talk to the ME who’d finally arrived.
Asher turned to Brooke. “Let me follow you home.”
“Why?”
He let out a short huff of laughter that didn’t hold an ounce of humor. “You’ve just had a shock. I suppose I just want to make sure you get there safely.”
“Oh. Thank you. That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be fine.”
He gave her a tight smile. “You might be fine, but I’m not sure I will be unless I see you safely home.” He paused. “Aw, heck, I don’t know if it’s even appropriate to ask this due to the situation, but would you be willing to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee with me?”
“Coffee?”
“Yeah, that black stuff people can’t seem to live without. Surely you’ve heard of it.”
She flushed. “Of course, I know what coffee is.” Her eyes sparked with a hint of indignation at his taunting, and he was glad to see the sign of life there. “Excuse me if I’m just a little scattered. Coffee would be lovely, thanks,” she said. She paused. “I hate to admit it, but the thought of going home and being alone makes me shudder.”
“No roommate?”
“No.” Her expression blanked. “I don’t like roommates.”
And just like that, the initial connection he felt with her when he’d seen the photograph was back. He didn’t like roommates either. He wasn’t exactly fond of his little studio apartment, but at least he could afford it and he could be alone when he needed to be. “I understand.”
Her lips twitched as though she wanted to argue with him, but she didn’t. Instead, she glanced at Sharon’s desk and winced. “But first, I’ve got phone calls to make and appointments to cancel.”
“Do you want to do that from here?”
“I’ll have to get the information from Sharon’s computer.”
“You’ll have to get permission from the detectives. They’ll want to watch what you access.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll wait on you.”
He waved his phone. “I need to call one of my partners and let him know I’m going to be out for the rest of the day.”
“Partner?”
He shrugged. “After that last mission, Gavin Black and I had the opportunity to get out, so we did. Travis Walker, a buddy from high school, opened his own security business a couple of years ago. He’d been nagging me about joining him ever since. I’ve been a silent partner for about a year. Now . . . I’m not so silent. Same with Gavin.”
“I didn’t realize . . . I mean, I guess I thought you were just on leave or in between missions or something.”
“Nope, I’m out for good. It was time.”
“Oh. I’m . . . sorry?” She frowned. “Or am I happy for you?”
“The jury’s still out on that.”
“Right.” She pointed to the desk. “I’m just going to go find a detective and cancel those appointments.”
“I’ll be ready when you are.”
Kristin Welsh, assistant director of the Morning Star Orphanage in Kabul, waited as Dr. Ali Madad checked his phone one more time. “There’s no Wi-Fi again today,” he muttered.
“No. Not yet. We’re hoping soon.” She exchanged glances with Hesther, the older woman who stood in the doorway to ensure Kristin and the doctor were not left alone in the room.
Dr. Madad worked at the local hospital, and once a week he made his “house call” to check on the children who needed medical attention but weren’t bad enough to require hospitalization. The children adored him and Kristin appreciated that he didn’t seem to mind her presence even though she was a woman.
Right now four-year-old Jabroot lay in his bed uninterested in anything going on around him.
“About the same as when you brought him to see me at the hospital yesterday,” he said without looking up.
For some reason, today his lack of eye contact made her want to grab his chin and force him to look at her, but this was Kabul. It was his way. “What can I do to help him?” she asked. “Does he need to be transported back to the hospital?” His gaze actually flicked up to meet hers for a brief second before he looked away. Surprise raised her left brow, but instead of saying anything about it—brief as it was—she stuck to business. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”
“No, not yet. Continue to give him the medication I prescribed last night and monitor him. He does have some cold symptoms, like the congestion in his chest, but he doesn’t have a fever. However, I’ve drawn some blood and will run a few tests just to rule anything else out. I’ll let you know the results as soon as I get them back.”
“Thank you.” Most doctors weren’t so conscientious. Not here. And certainly not for a “mere orphan.” She used to respect that—now she couldn’t help but find it suspect. And that made her very sad and very wary. But also, strangely hopeful—if her friend was right about him. She cleared her throat.
“What’s his story?” Dr. Madad asked as he packed his supplies in his old-fashioned medical bag.
“His story?”
“Yes. How did he come to be at the orphanage and how long has he been here?”
“His mother dropped him off about two months ago, saying she couldn’t feed him but she would be back to get him as soon as she could find work. She comes every so often to see him, and it breaks his heart when she leaves him.” Broke hers too, but that was the way it went here.
Still keeping his gaze averted, Dr. Madad made a notation on his phone. “I think I’d like to ask that all of the children’s files be updated with as much information about the parents as possible.”
“What?” She stared at him, and his eyes flicked to her once more before dropping back to the child. “That’s not even possible, you know that.”
“It will be difficult, yes, but as you well know, the more history I have, the better I’ll be able to treat the children.” He sighed. “Just do the ones you can.”
He had a point, but . . . “I’ll speak to the director and make your wishes known.” Because she could think of a dozen other reasons he could want that information—none of which she was comfortable with. Maybe Mr. Yusufi would be able to help her out. Not that she would hold her breath on that one. The director cared nothing for the children and didn’t make any secret of the fact. Mostly because he didn’t have to.
“Thank you,” Dr. Madad said.
“Of course.”
He might not like looking at her when he talked to her, but he needed her. And like it or not, she needed him. But what if she was wrong about her suspicions? Only one way to find out. “Doctor, I wanted to talk to you about something, if you—”
Running footsteps caught her attention, and she turned to see Paksima dart around Hesther’s grasping hands. The six-year-old launched herself at Kristin, and she caught the child up in a hug, inhaling the little-girl scent. “What are you doing?” she asked in the Pashto language. “You’re supposed to be in school.”
“I wanted to see you. I missed you.” She settled her head next to Kristin’s, and emotion swept over her. This little orphan had wormed her way into Kristin’s heart with very little effort. In a world that had given her nothing but pain, she offered joy, smiles, and love in return. “You need to get back to class before Teacher realizes you’re missing. I’ll come find you soon, okay? We’ll have a snack later before you go to bed and I’ll tuck you in.”
Kristin cut her eyes to the doctor, who didn’t seem to be paying attention, but she wouldn’t assume anything. “Of course. We always say our prayers. I’ll make sure the prayer mats are in the room.” Even though the prayer mats were the same as those used by the other Muslim children and adults to pray, she and Paksima prayed to a different God. The one true God who could work miracles.
Like the one she needed to discuss with Dr. Madad.
“Okay.” Paksima skipped off, down the hall, back toward the classroom she shared with forty other children.
“If the doctor is finished,” Hesther said to Kristin, “I’ll make sure Paksima gets back to class.”
“He’s finished,” Kristin said.
Hesther left, hurrying to catch up with the little girl.
“You’ve become attached.” Dr. Madad grabbed his bag from the table, stepped past her, and walked toward the door.
He didn’t approve. Of course he didn’t. “Dr. Madad, please wait.”
He stopped but didn’t turn. “Yes?”
“I want her to come live with me.” The words left her in a rush.
He remained silent for a moment. “She already does,” he finally said. “You live here and so does she.” He spoke to the open doorway.
“No, I mean . . .” She had to be careful. “I mean if I were to leave the orphanage for whatever reason, then I’d want the . . . ability . . . to take her with me.”
He laughed. “Impossible.”
“But I heard you could help me,” she said. “That you’ve made it possible for other Americans.”
He set his bag down and spun, his eyes narrowed but finally locked on hers. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What I mean is, you do good work. You care about these children and they know that.”
His wary gaze never wavered. “I have to earn their trust in order for them to let me help them.”
“I know. And I want to help Paksima. No matter what it costs.”
His eyes slid from hers once more. “You are helping her. By doing what you’re doing. There is nothing else you can do.”
Frustration swamped her. “I know, but it’s a shame Americans can’t adopt these kids—the ones with no family. Like Paksima.” There. She’d said it.
“You are not Muslim, therefore it is not possible and you shouldn’t bring it up again if you value your head.”
A fission of fear spiked up her spine. She’d misspoken, misstepped. A move that could be deadly for her. “I’m sorry. I see that I’m mistaken. I must have . . . misunderstood.”
“You must have. I would never risk my career—my life—ever. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes.”
“You will not start rumors of what you have just insinuated.”
“No, oh, no, I wouldn’t, I promise. Like I said, it’s my mistake and I’m very sorry. In my desperation, I blundered. I meant no insult.”
“Who did you hear this from?”
“No one. It was just an observation. Obviously, it was . . . inaccurate.”
He stayed silent, fingers curling into fists at his sides.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, her stomach tumbling into a tight knot. She’d said too much. Risked and lost. Would he find a way to send her home—or worse, make her—or Paksima—disappear?
“No.” He picked up his bag and strode down the hall. “I’ll be back next week,” he said without turning. “You have my number if he worsens.”
“Of course.” He left without another word and Kristin frowned at his retreating back. She’d been so sure he could help her.
She texted her friend and part-time orphanage volunteer.
Dr. Madad refused to help me. He was very angry at my insinuation that he was involved in black market adoptions—not that I used those exact words, but close enough.
She thought, then typed,
Maybe I was wrong.
The return text came through in under five seconds.
He’s probably worried about trusting the wrong person.
She replied, her fingers flying over the letters.
Yeah, I sure understand that.
And from what I’ve found, I don’t think you’re—we’re—wrong, but don’t be too overt. Do things to gain his trust.
I’m afraid it may be too late for that.
We’ll figure it out. My shift starts in a couple of hours. We’ll talk then.
Okay.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’s not involved.
But she was inclined to believe her instincts.
The patterns say we’re not wrong and that he’s driven by greed. I really thought he’d go for it. Especially when you told him you were willing to do whatever it took, no matter the cost.
I thought the same. I was telling myself that all I wanted to know is that the children were safe, but in truth, I was hoping he would say he would help me.
Because if he had said it, she would have done it—found a way to pay him whatever he wanted in order to call Paksima her daughter.
We’ll figure it out. Don’t give up hope.
Of course. Thank you, Sarah.