Chapter 38

Zahra’s drive ended on a barrier island. Jupiter Island.

“Are we on another planet?” Yasmin asked from the back seat, smiling.

They’d left the house before dawn, Zahra having told her daughter that their destination was “a surprise.” That was kind of

true—at least not as blatantly false as telling her that they were borrowing a friend’s car because Zahra’s was broken, or

that she was wearing no headscarf because she’d forgotten it. The idea was to avoid detection by state troopers or anyone

else who might see an AMBER Alert for a Muslim mother leaving Miami with her seven-year-old daughter. Not until they’d exited

the interstate and driven as far east as possible did Zahra begin to relax. South Beach Road was a quiet residential street

abutted by nature preserves and pristine dunes that, along with the sea turtles, made Jupiter Island a unique ecological haven.

“We’re still in Florida,” said Zahra. “I have no idea why they call it Jupiter.”

“It’s where the boys go,” said Yasmin.

“What?”

“Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider. Girls go to college to get more knowledge.”

The singsong cadence suggested a rhyme that Yasmin had picked up at school, but it sure was a bad one.

“Well, if you want to go to college, you’ll need to stop saying things like ‘more stupider.’”

Zahra couldn’t remember the exact street number, but she had a clear memory of a distinctive mailbox forged from an old ship anchor. It marked the narrow entrance to a private road, and it held true to its purpose. She made the turn and followed the two lines of sand and gravel away from the dunes and up a slight incline to higher ground. The sea oats and mangroves gave way to sprawling oaks, towering palm trees, and thick undergrowth. Deep in the tropical forest, at the highest point, was a six-bedroom estate. Behind it was a guest cottage. Zahra knew every inch of the well-concealed compound. She’d come to the US without a work visa and, through a friend of a friend, got a job as a housekeeper. The owner of the house, a Shiite Muslim who’d escaped tyranny, emigrated to the United States, and worked his way up from dishwasher to billionaire, had sympathized with her plight. Zahra parked in front of the guesthouse and turned off the engine.

“Like it?” asked Zahra.

Yasmin’s mouth was agape. Guest cottages on Jupiter Island were hardly “cottages.” This one was two stories tall and bigger

than their town house.

“Are we staying here?” asked Yasmin.

“Yup.”

“Cool! Can we go to the beach?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Zahra.

Zahra had once heard that Jupiter Island was, per capita, the wealthiest town in America, home to the likes of Tiger Woods

and Celine Dion. If that was true, it was also the world’s least ostentatious collection of billionaires, at least in Zahra’s

experience. In Miami, it seemed, people were always dropping names or flashing money, whether they had it or were just pretending

to have it. Jupiter Island was the kind of place where a dinner guest might insist on clearing his own plate, speaking to

the housekeeper as if she were actually a human being, never once mentioning that he used to be the CEO of NASDAQ and that

his wife was the retired board chair of a Fortune 100 company.

The island was also the perfect place for Zahra to disappear. For most of the nine hundred residents, Jupiter Island was strictly

a winter haven that didn’t fully come to life until after Thanksgiving. Zahra knew that this particular estate would be vacant

at least until December. She still had her housekeeper’s key to gain entry.

“Let’s go inside,” said Zahra.

They climbed out of the car and went to the front door. Her key worked, but the alarm began to chirp. She had thirty seconds

to input the code from memory. She prayed the property manager hadn’t changed it. Nerves made her mess up on the first try.

The second time was the charm. The chirping stopped.

“I get the biggest room!” said Yasmin.

She started off, but Zahra stopped her. “Shoes off, missy,” she said.

Yasmin complied and raced up the stairs. “ Now I get the biggest room!”

Zahra smiled to herself, knowing that, come nightfall, Yasmin wouldn’t last sixty seconds in separate rooms in a strange house.

Their car needed to be unloaded. Zahra brought in the coolers and put the perishables in the refrigerator, but the rest of

the food and luggage could wait. She hadn’t slept since Thursday night. Exhausted, she relaxed on the couch in the Florida

room while Yasmin explored upstairs.

Zahra wasn’t sure how long they would stay on the island. At least until the AMBER Alert was no longer flashing on the overhead

signs up and down I-95. She hadn’t seen an alert on the drive up, but surely Farid and his pit-bull lawyer would get the word

out in every way possible. Zahra the child abductor. Zahra the horrible mother. Zahra the terrible person. And, in one final

twist of the ironic knife: Zahra, the grave risk of physical and psychological harm.

It was a cozy room, and her gaze drifted toward the assortment of framed photographs on the coffee table. Seasons of life

in three generations of a wealthy Muslim family. The patriarch and his wife on camelback at the pyramids. Grandchildren building

sandcastles on what Zahra guessed was Dubai’s famous Jumeirah Beach. A beautiful bride dancing with her new husband as flower

petals rained down upon them. Persian weddings had many traditions, but there was no better photo op than the gol baron —literally, “raining flowers”—where guests tossed flower petals on the newlyweds as they danced and kissed. Zahra’s gaze held

on to that photo. It was the aroosi —the celebration after the wedding ceremony—she’d dreamed about as a little girl. The celebration she’d planned with Farid as a teenager, before Ava came of age. Completely unlike the celebration she got as Farid’s second wife.

More disappointing than the wedding was the wedding night.

The fault was not Zahra’s. She’d spent many hours and a small fortune on body hair removal, which was a bride-to-be ritual

in Iran. There had been no sexual relations between Zahra and Farid in their second round of dating—not even a kiss, with

Yasmin in the picture. But intimacy short of intercourse had been part of their relationship before Farid started dating Ava.

Zahra knew what Farid liked. And on that night alone in the hotel room, sharing a bed for the first time in years, she approached

him accordingly.

“Don’t, please,” said Farid, pulling away.

Zahra withdrew. “What’s wrong?”

He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, as if he wanted to explain. But no words came. Zahra couldn’t

read his mind, and in the darkness his face was little more than a silhouette. But she knew what was in his heart.

“It’s Ava, isn’t it?”

Farid sighed audibly. “No.”

“You’re not being truthful. But let me be truthful with you: Ava is never coming back.”

“She... I loved her.”

Zahra pulled away in anger, climbed out of the bed, and covered herself with a silk robe. “You’re hopeless,” she said, and

she started toward the bathroom.

“Zahra, please,” he said.

She stopped short of the bathroom door.

“Ava was my wife,” he said, his voice cracking. “I—I loved her.”

It took all her strength just to turn around and face him, her eyes lowering with anger that pierced the darkness. “No, Farid.

You are still in love with her.”

He looked away. But Zahra heard no denial.

“Mom, I saw the ocean from upstairs!” shouted Yasmin, stirring Zahra from her memories.

Zahra popped up from the couch, and Yasmin came to her.

“Can we go to the beach? Please, please, please ?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Aww. Why can’t we go now?”

“Let’s bake some cookies,” said Zahra, a surefire change of subject.

“Yay!”

“I just put a package of Toll House dough in the refrigerator. I’ll bet there’s a cookie sheet somewhere in that kitchen.”

“I’ll find it!” Yasmin said, and dashed from the room.

Zahra let her go. She needed a minute to make a quick phone call. She couldn’t tell anyone where she was, but she was in a

borrowed car, and she’d promised to let the owner know she’d arrived safely, wherever she was headed. She owed him that much,

and so much more. Meeting him had been the best thing to happen to her after leaving London and landing in Miami. He was her

emotional support. Her financial support. Her rock.

Zahra’s cell phone was in her purse, but it was wrapped in aluminum foil to prevent the police or anyone else from tracking

her GPS coordinates. Another tip from her rock. There was a landline telephone on the credenza. She checked it, got a dial

tone, and dialed the number from memory. Her rock answered.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Hi, baby. How are you?”

“Okay,” she said wistfully. “I miss you already.”

“We can fix that.”

Zahra smiled. “Maybe. I’ll call you tomorrow.”