cobaltsky. “The things men do to children. Our rule teaches us to be merciful. But this … I tremble to say it, but I feel wrath. You must find the man who did this and put him in prison.”
Zoe met her eyes. “We’ll get him,” she promised.
After returning to the CILA office, Zoe spent the afternoon pretending to research a point of British evidentiary law on which the Zambian courts had yet to rule. In fact she was thoroughly preoccupied by her father’s email. She was trapped and she knew it. She could neither avoid a response nor deny his request—to do so would dissolve the goodwill she had succeeded in rebuilding when he and Sylvia had met her for dinner in South Africa at the end of her clerkship.
She sat by the window, pondering the contradictions in their relationship. Eleven years ago he had betrayed her with a kiss and she had run from him, until she realized she was a kite on a string, beholden to him still. Her charitable trust—a creation of her mother’s will—was not yet hers, and the man who managed it was her father’s puppet. Atticus Spelling, an octogenarian curmudgeon in New York, had vetoed many of her donations over the years, citing concerns about the fiscal discipline of the charities she favored. If not for her father’s intervention, Spelling would have withheld funding from half a dozen small nonprofits doing life-saving work in southern Africa, including Special Child Advocates and St. Francis. Zoe hated the subterfuge, but she was bound to it until her thirtieth birthday.
When five o’clock came, she finally sent an email accepting her father’s invitation. Then she left the office and climbed into her Land Rover, sitting for a moment before starting the engine. She watched the lavender jacaranda blooms dance in the wind and tried not to think about Friday night. After a while, she started the SUV and pulled into traffic, taking Independence Avenue toward Kabulonga.
When she arrived at her apartment complex, she greeted the guard at the gate and parked beside a hedge of bird of paradise. Entering her apartment, she threw her backpack on the couch and went to her bedroom to change into her swimsuit. The air was cool in the falling light, and the pool would be frigid, but she didn’t care. She had grown up swimming in the North Atlantic.
The gardens were deserted when she arrived. The pool had an emerald tint and its surface was dotted with wind-blown jacaranda blossoms. She set her iPhone on a lounge chair and took off her T-shirt and shorts. Putting on her goggles, she entered the water with a shallow dive. The cold enveloped her, hammering her nerves and stealing her breath, but she turned discomfort into speed, churning the water with a power that had qualified her to compete in the NCAA swim championships at Stanford.
After twenty laps, she pulled herself out and sat on the edge, drinking in the last golden drops of sunlight. A memory came to her from when she was fourteen: her mother on the beach at the Vineyard house, a blue and white scarf trailing in the stiff wind. Storm clouds blowing in from the south, turning the surface of Eel Pond into slate. Emerging from the water into the warm embrace of a towel. Running toward the house as the raindrops began to fall. Lightning searing the sky, thunder rumbling overhead. And her mother’s laughter, like grace notes in the chorus. It was Catherine’s last day on the Vineyard before she left for Somalia.
When the pool fell into shadow, Zoe dried herself off and walked back to her apartment, thinking about dinner. Her iPhone rang just inside the front door. It was Joseph.
“Mariam said to call you,” he began. “A woman in Kabwata filed a report about a missing girl with mental problems. She identified herself as a friend of the girl’s mother.”
Zoe immediately forgot her hunger. “Are you going to talk to her?”
“I’m five minutes from your apartment.”
“I’ll meet you outside the gate.”
The address
Zoe met her eyes. “We’ll get him,” she promised.
After returning to the CILA office, Zoe spent the afternoon pretending to research a point of British evidentiary law on which the Zambian courts had yet to rule. In fact she was thoroughly preoccupied by her father’s email. She was trapped and she knew it. She could neither avoid a response nor deny his request—to do so would dissolve the goodwill she had succeeded in rebuilding when he and Sylvia had met her for dinner in South Africa at the end of her clerkship.
She sat by the window, pondering the contradictions in their relationship. Eleven years ago he had betrayed her with a kiss and she had run from him, until she realized she was a kite on a string, beholden to him still. Her charitable trust—a creation of her mother’s will—was not yet hers, and the man who managed it was her father’s puppet. Atticus Spelling, an octogenarian curmudgeon in New York, had vetoed many of her donations over the years, citing concerns about the fiscal discipline of the charities she favored. If not for her father’s intervention, Spelling would have withheld funding from half a dozen small nonprofits doing life-saving work in southern Africa, including Special Child Advocates and St. Francis. Zoe hated the subterfuge, but she was bound to it until her thirtieth birthday.
When five o’clock came, she finally sent an email accepting her father’s invitation. Then she left the office and climbed into her Land Rover, sitting for a moment before starting the engine. She watched the lavender jacaranda blooms dance in the wind and tried not to think about Friday night. After a while, she started the SUV and pulled into traffic, taking Independence Avenue toward Kabulonga.
When she arrived at her apartment complex, she greeted the guard at the gate and parked beside a hedge of bird of paradise. Entering her apartment, she threw her backpack on the couch and went to her bedroom to change into her swimsuit. The air was cool in the falling light, and the pool would be frigid, but she didn’t care. She had grown up swimming in the North Atlantic.
The gardens were deserted when she arrived. The pool had an emerald tint and its surface was dotted with wind-blown jacaranda blossoms. She set her iPhone on a lounge chair and took off her T-shirt and shorts. Putting on her goggles, she entered the water with a shallow dive. The cold enveloped her, hammering her nerves and stealing her breath, but she turned discomfort into speed, churning the water with a power that had qualified her to compete in the NCAA swim championships at Stanford.
After twenty laps, she pulled herself out and sat on the edge, drinking in the last golden drops of sunlight. A memory came to her from when she was fourteen: her mother on the beach at the Vineyard house, a blue and white scarf trailing in the stiff wind. Storm clouds blowing in from the south, turning the surface of Eel Pond into slate. Emerging from the water into the warm embrace of a towel. Running toward the house as the raindrops began to fall. Lightning searing the sky, thunder rumbling overhead. And her mother’s laughter, like grace notes in the chorus. It was Catherine’s last day on the Vineyard before she left for Somalia.
When the pool fell into shadow, Zoe dried herself off and walked back to her apartment, thinking about dinner. Her iPhone rang just inside the front door. It was Joseph.
“Mariam said to call you,” he began. “A woman in Kabwata filed a report about a missing girl with mental problems. She identified herself as a friend of the girl’s mother.”
Zoe immediately forgot her hunger. “Are you going to talk to her?”
“I’m five minutes from your apartment.”
“I’ll meet you outside the gate.”
The address
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