Chapter 43

Zahra turned on the Disney Channel for Yasmin, locked the cottage door on her way out, and took a walk around the compound.

She needed time to clear her head and take stock. And make sure they were alone.

She’d brought enough food for a week, so there was no need to make a run across the bridge to the convenience store on the

mainland. That was a good thing. Thousands of Floridians had surely seen her photograph on the local news, and she needed

to make sure no one recognized her. She supposed it helped that most people were “on the lookout” for an “Iranian mother with

a child.” Unless she dressed up Yasmin in a Princess Jasmine costume, covered herself in a full-body chador, and started ululating

in the public square, the typical Martin County resident probably wouldn’t spot them.

The compound was well maintained, but Zahra and Yasmin were indeed alone. Zahra tried to recall the off-season maintenance

schedule so that she could prepare for possible visitors to the property. Swimming pool cleaner on Mondays. Landscaping team

and insecticide sprayer on Tuesdays. Some guy with a small tractor came to roll the clay tennis court every other week. None

of them had reason to come knocking on the door to the guest cottage, even if there was a car in the driveway. They did their

job and left.

Zahra walked to the east side of the property and followed a woodchip pathway up the incline through the tropical garden. She spotted banana shrubs, angel’s trumpet, bird of paradise, and other gems of the subtropics, all presented in their natural beauty, without the overly manicured look that seemed to dominate south Florida residences. At the top of the hill, just high enough for her to see over the tops of palm trees to the Atlantic Ocean, was an open space. It had easily the most beautiful vista on the grounds. And it was the one place that made the property distinctly Muslim.

Zahra stepped to the center of the clearing, where a square deck with a thatched roof was supported by four posts. Except

for two locations—a cemetery and a bathroom—Muslims could offer the five daily prayers virtually anywhere. The owner had chosen

this spot, facing northeast, though it looked more like a tennis hut than a musalla , probably because the local building code was more accommodating to the former than to a private place of worship.

Zahra found a prayer mat in a storage chest and placed it on the deck. When away from home, she normally used a prayer app

to find qibla —the direction facing Mecca—but her cell phone was wrapped in aluminum foil to prevent tracking by police, so she trusted

that the owner had positioned his prayer space properly. She had no Quran, but there was a tawla , a foldable X-shaped bookrest, before her, engraved with a familiar Islamic verse, which she read aloud to herself. Translated,

it read:

verily, with every hardship comes ease.

It was a popular verse, and billions of people around the globe found comfort in it. Zahra, too, found the words comforting

on a spiritual level. But under these circumstances—on the run with Yasmin—it was a bit unsettling to find this particular

verse on display in her chosen hideaway. The fact that the owner had selected it for his prayer space wasn’t surprising: Quran

94:5 was one of those verses that could be found framed and hanging on the wall in millions of Muslim homes. Zahra’s problem

with it was personal: she’d seen the same verse, framed and on display, when visiting Imam Reza in Tehran.

That meeting had been well after the wedding ceremony. In fact, it was the last time Zahra had seen the imam before his testimony

by videoconference in the Hague proceeding. She’d gone to him seeking guidance after Ava’s arrest and imprisonment.

“What troubles you, Zahra?” Imam Reza asked.

Zahra was seated in the chair facing his desk. She spoke in a soft, respectful tone. “My sister, Ava. I went to visit her

today at Evin.”

The imam’s eyes clouded with concern. “You need to be very careful about that. Your sister is in serious trouble.”

“I’m afraid she has only made things worse.”

“How?”

“She lied to the morality police.”

His concern deepened. “Lied? How?”

Zahra collected herself, then continued. “She said she wears her hair short with Farid’s permission. She told them that she

cut her hair while she and Farid were living in London.”

“And that was a lie?”

“Yes,” Zahra said with urgency.

“What is the truth? You must tell me, Zahra.”

She answered quietly. “She cut it last week at a protest against the hijab laws.”

The imam drew a deep breath, then offered words of praise. “You have done the right thing by sharing this information with

me, Zahra.”

He picked up the phone that was on his desk.

“Who are you calling?” asked Zahra.

“You can go now,” he said. “This is in my hands.”

“Who are you calling?”

The imam gave her a stern look, a warning. “You can go, woman.”

A cockatoo cawed from somewhere in the garden, bringing Zahra back to her more immediate problem. She placed the prayer mat

back in the storage bin and walked back to the cottage. The front door was locked, just as she’d left it, and she used her

key. The door opened a few inches but then stopped, having caught on the chain, which gave her concern. She hadn’t told Yasmin

to fasten the chain lock, though she knew how to use the one at home, albeit with the help of a stool to reach it.

Zahra spoke loudly through the opening. “Yasmin, it’s me. Open the door.”

She waited, but there was no response.

“Yasmin,” she said, louder this time. “I’m not fooling around. Open the door, please.”

Zahra could hear the television playing in the other room, which did nothing to ease her concern. She listened more intently, blocking out the noise of the TV show, straining to hear any other sound. She thought she heard Yasmin’s voice.

“Yasmin!” she shouted. “Who are you talking to? Open the door!”

She heard footfalls on the other side of the door. Someone was coming.

“Just a minute, Mommy.”

Zahra felt a moment of relief, then anger. “No, not ‘just a minute.’ Open the door. Now!”

She could hear Yasmin climbing up on the chair in the foyer. Zahra pulled the door shut, and the chain rattled off the slide

on the other side. She pushed the door open quickly but carefully, so as not to knock Yasmin off the chair. Zahra hugged Yasmin,

then looked her squarely in the eye and shared some tough love.

“What were you doing?”

“When?”

“Don’t give me ‘when.’ Who told you to put the chain on the door?”

“Nobody.”

“Were you talking to someone?”

“When?”

“Yasmin, stop asking me when! I heard you talking.”

“I was on the phone.”

Zahra’s heart skipped a beat. “ My phone?”

“Yeah, I wanted to play a game. I found your phone in the bedroom.”

“The phone that was wrapped in aluminum foil?”

“Yeah. It was like a present.”

“It’s not a present . You weren’t supposed to use it!”

“I just used it to play a game.”

“So, you were talking to the phone? Is that part of the game?”

“No, I was on the phone. It rang, so I answered it.”

“Yasmin, no! Who called?”

Her shoulders slumped. “You’re going to be mad at me.”

“No, I won’t be mad—mad der . Who were you talking to?”

Yasmin hesitated. “Mr. Swyteck.”

Zahra kept control. Better Jack than the police. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Zahra said quietly.

“Did you tell him where we are?”

“Planet Jupiter,” she said, quieter still.

“Oh, my goodness, Yasmin,” she said, breathing out her words.

“Are you mad at me, Mommy?”

“No. It’s not your fault. But I need you to listen to me, okay? I want you to go get your suitcase and pack up everything

you brought inside. I’m going to do the same.”

“But we just got here. We didn’t get to go to the beach yet. Are we leaving before we even go in the ocean?”

“I don’t know. Mommy has to figure something out. Just pack your bag. And be quick about it.”

“So we are leaving?”

“I don’t know, honey. I really don’t know what we’re going to do now.”