Hazel

19 CONNOR

On the way to the school, Ahmed called Samantha. Apparently to apologize and fish for information about where she’d been.

“He can’t hide it,” I muttered, too loudly.

“Neither can you,” she replied as we pulled up to the school gate. “You two and your alpha male competition… it’s funny.”

“We’re not competing,” I said, my voice coming out almost like a growl. “I don’t like how he treats you. We shouldn’t abuse the trust people place in us.”

“You mean cops?” Her fingers wrapped around the handle, but her eyes were locked on mine with devastating intensity.

“I mean men,” I replied, covering her hand to push the gate open.

“You think he does that?” she asked, hesitating as we both held the gate.

“Samantha… you’re a smart girl. Getting by out there, doing what you have to do,” I said in a calmer tone. “I respect that. But it leaves you… vulnerable.”

She didn’t move, so I continued, even knowing I was treading on sensitive ground.

“I have no idea what you two had, and clearly you had something. That’s none of my business.” Samantha bit her lip, as if I were stirring up old dust. “But it’s not normal for him to show up unannounced at your place, knowing everything you do, demanding explanations. Tracking your every move.”

“I think he’s just protective. He worries about me,” she said so quietly I almost believed she wasn’t bothered by Ahmed’s advances.

“I know. I just want you to know you don’t owe him anything,” I said, smiling, trying to break that almost terrified expression on her face. “He’s a cop, a figure of power. Of security. But… he doesn’t own you.”

“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll remember that.”

“Great. Now let’s see what we can do here.” I removed my hand and she pulled hers back, cradling it against her chest. The way I wanted to hold her myself.

In the school’s entrance hall, I still had no idea how to reach the girl.

“Hi,” a short woman said, approaching Samantha. “How can I help you?”

Samantha smiled at me.

“My husband and I are looking for a school for our daughter,” Sam said, running her hand along my forearm.

I flashed a nervous smile at the woman watching us.

I didn’t have time to think of what to say as Samantha traced her finger along my wrist—a simple gesture meant to convey intimacy to the woman watching us so attentively.

“Oh, how sweet,” the woman smiled at us. “How old is your daughter?”

We answered at the same time.

“Twelve.”

“Four.”

I stared at Samantha. She smiled while shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

“Sorry. I always forget my baby’s grown up,” she said with exaggerated affection.

“I’m always telling you that, dear,” I said, turning to the confused woman. “Samantha is twelve.”

“That’s right, a young lady,” Sam confirmed, squeezing my arm even tighter.

“That age is tough,” the woman warned.

“You have no idea,” I teased. “Would you believe she insists on using a plant pot as her cup?”

The woman laughed.

“Not to mention the mess she makes of my things,” I continued, and Samantha pinched me.

“I have a little one too,” she said, sympathizing with my plight. “I came to work here to keep an eye on her.”

“Ah, of course.”

“My goodness… how rude of me. My name is Zenaide, and you are?”

“We’re Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien,” Samantha answered quickly. Hearing those words from her lips sent a shiver through me. So much so that I barely registered how easily we’d found the elusive Zenaide.

“Oh, Americans?” Zenaide said with a smile. “We have a lot of exchange students at the school. Would you like to see the facilities?”

“That would be great, wouldn’t it, honey?” Samantha’s melodious voice and those amber eyes gazing at me with such affection nearly knocked me off my feet. She was good at this whole act.

“Yes. Whatever you need,” I replied without taking my eyes off her.

Zenaide pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and opened door after door as we went.

“You said you came here just to be close to your daughter…” I probed.

“Yes. I had a quiet job before,” Zenaide said with a smile. “But I’m a single mother, and I was spending very little time with Nala.”

“I understand. Working with children must be quite the adventure,” Samantha chimed in. “Zenaide… forgive my asking… but your face looks familiar to me. Doesn’t it, dear?”

“Yes. I had the same feeling,” I agreed, playing along.

“Could it have been at that art exhibition in Alexandria? I'm always at those things. I'm almost certain you were with a sculptor, or something like that.” Samantha had the gift. She'd make an excellent detective if she wanted to.

“Oh, could it have been in Morocco?” Zenaide's expression seemed to light up, as if she were reclaiming a piece of herself. “I used to go with Mr. Raafat to his events.”

“Ahh, of course! Raafat. The sculptor who makes weapons!” Samantha smiled. “My husband and I love his work. We bought a small piece once in New York.”

“Mr. Raafat only exported a few pieces. He says a people's memory should stay with them.” She opened the door to a small courtyard.

“A wise man,” I said.

“Yes. One of the finest artisans in this country.”

“I haven't heard anything about him in a while. I was looking for some pieces I'd heard were his.” Samantha pushed a little more. “A collector friend from New York acquired one of them. A khopesh.”

“Ahh, of course. I think I remember some of his best pieces. Beautiful work.”

“This one had small golden engravings, a braided leather grip, and an arabesque in high relief. A beauty.” Every time Samantha pushed her luck, I feared Zenaide would pull back, suspicious. But she seemed… hypnotized.

“I think I remember those. They were beautiful pieces.”

“My husband tried to find one for me, but we learned it was exclusive.” Samantha stroked my hand.

“Yes. They were one-of-a-kind.” Zenaide shrugged. “All three of them.”

“Three? I'd heard there were only two.” Zenaide seemed to search her memory for this lost detail.

“There were three. The first was made many years ago. Then the gentleman who bought it came back for another about five years later.”

“And the third?”

“Recently someone called, asking for another piece. Mr. Raafat was going through a rough time, so he accepted. They picked it up shortly before he decided to close the studio and take a vacation.”

“Vacation? He told you that?”

“Yes. He sent me a postcard last month.” Zenaide stopped suddenly. “Are you enjoying the school?”

“Yes, yes. It's beautiful.” Samantha feigned excitement.

“Oh, that's wonderful. You have to see our cafeteria. Top-notch!” Zenaide said excitedly.

Zenaide took us to the cafeteria, but we couldn't go inside because the children were there. Then she showed us the other facilities before leading us back to the entrance.

“It was an excellent tour, Zenaide,” Samantha said.

“I hope you bring Samantha here. She'll love it!” Zenaide said excitedly.

“Of course, next time we'll bring our little rebel,” I teased.

Before the gate closed behind us, Samantha played her last card.

“Zenaide! I know it's not your job anymore, but would you happen to know who bought the last khopesh? It would be a dream to finally have one.”

“Let me see.” Zenaide scratched her temple. “I don't know the name… I only remember that an errand boy came to pick it up. I believe it was someone from Cairo, since I didn't have to spend hours packing the piece and handling export paperwork.”

“Any chance you remember the name?” This time I pressed.

“Unfortunately, I don't.” Zenaide seemed lost in thought. “The guy who picked it up was huge—stocky and muscular. I remember because he was frighteningly large.”

She smiled.

“One last question…” Samantha approached her. “Mr. Raafat… have you tried to contact him?”

“Yes! Several times,” she replied. “I went to the office, but no one answered.”

“Do you have a pen?” I asked Zenaide, who promptly handed me a black pen. I pulled a card from my wallet and wrote Samantha's phone number on the back. “If you remember anything about that khopesh, promise you'll let me know? Our wedding anniversary is coming up. I'd love to spoil Mrs. O'Brien.”

The word slipped from my mouth with ease.

“Of course. Leave it to me.” Zenaide smiled broadly again. “I'll try calling Mohammad again.”

Sam and I exchanged a look. It was hard knowing she would never recover that brightness once she learned the truth. So we chose to give her a little more time in her illusion.

When we left the school, Samantha stayed silent for a few blocks. I let her absorb everything that had happened in the last few hours.

“Are you hungry?” I asked without thinking.

“We have to keep investigating and—”

I took her arm, gently but firmly enough to stop her.

“We still have to eat, right? At least grab a coffee.” I said slowly, her golden eyes locked on mine until she nodded. “Great.”

We spotted a small café a few yards ahead and decided to go in. We sat in the back, which overlooked a small vertical garden with a fountain at the base.

While I was getting coffee, I saw Samantha in the distance answering a call. Her expression shifted from excited to confused, and I wondered what could wipe such a beautiful smile from her face.

I waited for them to hand over the cups of steaming, pure Arabic coffee, and if I hadn't tasted Samantha's coffee the other day, the aroma might have fooled me.

But this coffee was much sweeter and fruitier than I preferred.

My taste ran more bitter—with that lingering plastic aftertaste of New York.

When I approached, Samantha was typing on her phone. She bit her lip as she tapped out what was clearly an angry message.

“We need to see Mr. Omar,” she said without looking up from the screen.

“Still trying to kick me out of your apartment?” I slid the cup toward her and pulled the phone from her hand.

“Hey, give that back,” she ordered, but I ignored her, tucking the device in my pocket.

“First, you need energy.”

“You don't understand, I was—”

“Trying to find out more about the big guy from the Antique Shop,” I finished, taking a sip of my drink. “Yeah, I noticed the similarity in Zenaide's description too.”

Samantha melted into the chair, clearly frustrated. Her fingers reached for the cup in front of her.

“I thought I was being brilliant,” she grumbled, like a whiny kid.

“Brilliant? That's a stretch,” I replied. Her golden eyes immediately scolded me. “But definitely a good observer. You're good at that.”

“So you think the same company might have bought the khopesh too…”

“I'm not ruling it out.” My agreement seemed to rekindle the flame in her eyes. “Who was on the phone?”

“What?” She stared at me.

“Who were you talking to… while I was getting the coffee?”

Samantha stared into the bottom of her cup and took another sip before continuing.

“My abuela's lawyer,” she shrugged. “Something about the estate being finalized… and other stuff.”

“Ah…” I didn't know much about Samantha's life before she came to Cairo. In fact, I knew very little about anything. “Is it as bad as that wrinkle between your eyes makes it look?”

“My time is running out.” Samantha's body language, usually so confident, turned almost childlike as she fidgeted with the cup on the table.

“Are you dying?” I teased. She didn't react. “Don't make me beg for information, girl.”

“I promised I'd come back in two years, but I've been here four,” she finally said.

“My abuela got sick when I hit the two-year mark in Egypt.

I asked her for a few more months and promised I'd come back to take care of her.

But I got sucked into leads and theories.

Before I knew it, they called to tell me she'd passed and that the will could only be opened in my presence.”

“And they've been waiting ever since…”

“I couldn't let it go,” she said, looking directly at me, seeking understanding. Samantha and I had something in common. Something powerful. That hunger driving us toward answers. Toward closure. Toward revenge.

“What if you don't want to go back?”

“Then I'll be the ruin of Abuela Carmen's legacy,” she said with a sad smile.

“She and her husband had a coffee farm and kept up the cultivation traditions, even after he passed.

Abuela Carmen loved what she did and kept doing it until the end.

And now it's all mine. And all I've done is ignore her last wish.”

“Coffee, huh? Can't picture you as a farm girl,” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

“You should see me in boots and a cowboy hat,” she shot back, but we both realized that line hit me a certain way, and it was hard to shake the image my brain conjured up. “Anyway… I wasn't born for that life… I just don't know what to do with the guilt of not wanting to try.”

I stared at her in silence. Samantha carried her family's burdens and expectations. Calling her a victim would deny her unique strength, but the girl definitely had a lot of inherited baggage weighing on her constantly.

“I think we're both running out of time,” I finally said.