Chapter Thirty-Four
Now
My heart turned over in my chest every time I walked by Ali’s closet.
Like his home office, it was one of the places in the house so intrinsically tied to Ali that I could still feel his presence among the jumble of clothes and shoes.
Even mundane things like underwear and socks took on a poignant edge.
On the closet floor, a lifetime of select papers, pictures, and memories filled an old leather briefcase that I’d never seen Ali actually use.
The presence of these objects drove home again and again how strange it was to have all of Ali’s worldly goods here while he was in another dimension.
Going through his closet made me feel like an interloper. This was Ali’s personal space. I’d always stayed out of it. After his death, the closet became a constant reminder of a loss that remained so incomprehensible that I still couldn’t quite believe it.
I couldn’t bear to get rid of his belongings.
Now that my faith in my husband was restored, it was much too early to contemplate giving away yet another piece of him.
But I did need his possessions out of my room, safely tucked away for me to revisit when I wanted to, rather than being assaulted by my loss every time I walked past his closet.
Besides, Adam and Ayla might want some of Ali’s things to remember him by once they both fully believed in him again.
I’d taken to wearing an old navy sweatshirt Ali used to wear around the house.
I went out to pick up some plastic bins at the store and got to work as soon as I returned home.
I’d put my husband’s belongings away until the kids and I were ready to sort through them together.
Packing away Ali’s things made me more determined than ever to exonerate my husband, especially in the eyes of our children.
I worked methodically, going through the pockets, pulling out old receipts and parking stubs.
There wasn’t a lot to clean out. Ali was good at emptying his pockets at the end of the day.
When I came to Ali’s suits, I lingered on the one that was still covered in plastic, the coffee-stained jacket Ali wore to work on his last day.
I drew off the plastic and inhaled the suit’s scent, which was a musty closet smell with no lingering traces of Ali. I sighed and emptied the pockets. One contained a wadded-up sticker name tag. I smoothed it out to make sure I wasn’t throwing away anything important.
Ali’s name was written on the tag in red marker. It was from a place called the Meadows, which I’d never heard of. But what caught my attention was the date. Adrenaline streaked through my veins.
July 23.
The day Ali died.
What was this place? Why would Ali be there on a workday? Maybe there had been some sort of professional meeting at the Meadows. I immediately texted Jake, the real one, to see if there’d been a work event that day at a place called the Meadows. He replied almost immediately.
Jake: Hi Amira. Good to hear from you. I’ve never heard of the place.
Me: Could one of your clients be associated with the Meadows?
Jake: I’d have to check
Me: Do you know if Ali left the office during work on the day that he died?
Jake: Let me check on both points. Give me a few minutes
I folded more clothes while waiting to hear back from Jake. On that last day, Ali had reminded me of his evening work event but hadn’t mentioned going anywhere else. The phone pinged, and I practically lunged for it.
Jake: I couldn’t find any firm associations with any place called the Meadows. But it does look like Ali left the office for a couple of hours on July 23
Me: Did he say where he was going?
Jake: The receptionist remembers Ali talking about having an appointment
Me: OK. Thanks for checking
Jake: No problem. Also, I asked around and no one at the office knows what the Meadows is
I immediately pulled out my laptop to search the Meadows.
A Meadows Ice Cream Shop popped up, along with a Meadows Condominiums. The only thing that popped up with the “The” before it was an eldercare facility in Arlington.
I found the facility’s website and clicked around inside, trying to find a reason Ali would have visited the place during a workday.
The facility had an online newsletter. I clicked through the pages; some welcomed smiley new arrivals, while others featured shots of seniors in exercise class. Some residents were gray haired and weathered; others sported coiffed dyed hair and stylish outfits.
I was about to give up when a name in the birthdays section caught my attention. The posted group photo was of residents who had upcoming birthdays. I zeroed in on one name. Martha Martins.
Could it be? I went back to the old online obituary for Lizzie’s father. And there it was. Survived by his wife Martha Martins. Ali went to see Lizzie’s mother on the day he died?
Why?
There was only one way to find out.
“You’d like to see Mrs. Martins?” The receptionist greeted me with a welcoming smile. “She’ll be thrilled. Miss Martha loves to have visitors.”
I’d picked up flowers at the grocery store on the way over to the Meadows, which turned out to be a bright, airy place with pale lemon walls trimmed in white.
“Is she expecting you?” the receptionist asked.
“Not exactly.” I embellished a little. “She knew my late husband quite well. He visited her here.”
She reached for the phone and pounded a few buttons.
“Yes, Miss Martha? This is Bernice at reception. There’s a nice young lady here to visit with you. She says you knew her husband.” I could hear the muffled voice on the other line.
“I’ll check,” Bernice said into the receiver before catching my eye. “What is your husband’s name?”
“His name was Ali. Ali Abadi.”
“Ali Abadi,” Bernice repeated into the phone. More from the muffled voice. She smiled and hung up. “Go on through. Room 204. She’s excited to see you.”
My heart pounded behind my ribs. “Thank you.”
When I reached room 204, I found the door open and Mrs. Martins waiting for me on the threshold. She looked older and far frailer than I’d expected. Her curly hair was completely gray, her skin lined and colorless.
“My dear.” To my surprise, she enveloped me in a warm hug. “How nice of you to come.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” I handed her the bouquet. “These are for you.”
Her lined eyes crinkled. “They’re beautiful. Come in, please.”
I followed her into the room, a generous space with a bedroom area with a cheerful sitting area. She set the flowers on a side table and settled on an old leather lounger, gesturing for me to take the sofa. “Aren’t you as pretty as a picture? Ali is a lucky man.”
I smiled, noting how she referred to Ali in the present tense. “I was lucky to be his wife.”
“Oh yes, such a decent and devoted young man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
“It’s a terrible loss,” I agreed, wrestling with my emotions, determined to keep my composure.
“If you know Ali, you must also know my daughter, Elizabeth?”
“I have met Lizzie, yes.”
“And my son, have you met him too?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”
A puzzled expression crossed her face. “That’s very surprising.”
“It is?” I asked. “Why?”
“Because of how Ali—”
She was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of a nurse wearing colorful floral scrubs. “Miss Martha, it’s time for your medication.”
The older woman frowned. “But I just took them.”
“No, dear, you haven’t had your meds yet today.”
Martha regarded the woman with suspicion. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” she said, her voice upbeat. “Would I lie to you?”
Mrs. Martins looked dismayed. “I keep forgetting so much lately.”
“We all have days like that,” the nurse said in a soothing tone. “Here you go.”
I looked around the room to give Mrs. Martins some privacy while she took her medications.
A grouping of family photos on the side table caught my eye.
Lizzie looked the same as now, just older.
But I didn’t immediately recognize Mrs. Martins.
She looked much younger in the picture, smiling and vibrant, worlds apart from the frail older woman sitting across from me.
My gaze caught on the third person in the photo.
My pulse spiked as I stared at the familiar face.
“There you go, Miss Martha,” the nurse said to Mrs. Martins as she finished giving her medication. “You call if you need anything.”
After the nurse left, I struggled to stay calm. I didn’t want to do anything to alarm Mrs. Martins. “Are these your children?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as possible.
“Yes, that’s Elizabeth, who, of course, you know. And that’s my son, William.”
My heart kicked. “Bill Warren is your son?”
Her rheumy eyes lit up. “So you do know my Billy?” She shot me a puzzled look. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“I guess I forgot that he was Lizzie’s brother,” I blustered. “I think the association slipped my mind because they don’t have the same last name. Why is that?”
“Didn’t you know?” she said. “Billy is the product of my first marriage. Lizzie is the child from my second marriage to Lawrence.”
Shock rippled through me. Lizzie and Bill Warren were half siblings. What did that mean? Why hadn’t Bill Warren mentioned the connection?
“If you’d come this morning, you could have seen Lizzie,” Mrs. Martins said.
“Lizzie visited you today?” I asked. “She’s in town?”
She nodded. “Oh yes. When she’s in Virginia, she books a room at the extended-stay hotel down the street.”
“And does she visit you often?”
“Yes. No.” She scrunched up her face. “I think so. Maybe. Sometimes it’s hard to remember.”
My stomach dipped. I desperately needed Mrs. Martins to remember her meeting with Ali. “My husband came to see you on the day he died. I was wondering why. Did he visit often?”
“Ali?” She shook her head. “No, he never came. That was the first time. I asked him to come because—” She abruptly halted mid-sentence. “What do you mean? On the day he died? What’s happened to Ali?”
It was my turn to be confused. “I assumed your daughter would have told you.” Lizzie came to visit often and never told her mother about Ali’s death? “He died in a car accident a few months ago.”
Shock rippled across her face. “On the same day he came to see me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“No, no, no,” she moaned, shaking her head, breaking into heaving sobs.
Alarmed, I came to my feet and crossed over to put a light hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Martins, please don’t be so upset. Is there anything I can get you?”
Instead of being comforted, the old woman sobbed even louder.
The door opened, and two staff members rushed in. The young man and the nurse who’d administered Mrs. Martins’s meds hurried to the woman’s side. “Mrs. Martins, calm down. Everything is going to be OK.”
I backed away to give them room.
“Is my husband coming to see me?” she asked, tears streaming down her face. “I want Lawrence right now.” She huddled over, rocking herself back and forth.
The nurse looked at me. “What did you say to her?”
I felt her recrimination. “I told her that my husband died. They’re . . . I guess you could say . . . old family friends.”
Her face hardened. “In her condition, the last thing Mrs. Martins needs is to be upset by visitors.”
I briefly wondered what the state of Mrs. Martins’s health was. “I didn’t realize that she hadn’t been told.”
The man straightened to face me, speaking loudly over the old woman’s moaning. “I think you should leave now. Mrs. Martins needs to rest.”
His voice was kind but firm, leaving me no choice but to gather up my things. I scurried out of Mrs. Martins’s room, guilt rippling through me, even though I’d done nothing wrong. My mind zigzagged in all directions. Bill and Lizzie were siblings. And their mother said she was sorry about Ali.
He didn’t deserve what happened to him.
I’d assumed that she was referring to the accident, but if the crash was news to her, what had she meant?
I climbed into my van. A shot of orange flickered in my peripheral vision. When I turned toward it, an orange sports car pulled out of the parking lot and sped away. I shivered. That car showing up in random places no longer seemed like a coincidence. Could somebody actually be following me?
Maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe orange sports cars were the latest rage. Still, I dialed Detective Fox.
“You don’t know for sure that you’re being followed, is that right?” she said after I told her about the vehicle.
“What are the chances that we both just happened to be in the same place that often?”
“It’s hard to look up without a license plate,” she told me. “Try to get the license plate number if the car shows up again. And I’ll see what I can do.”