Collateral Damage Page 5

  He had a point, but . . . “I’ll speak to the director and make your wishes known.” Because she could think of a dozen other reasons he could want that information—none of which she was comfortable with. Maybe Mr. Yusufi would be able to help her out. Not that she would hold her breath on that one. The director cared nothing for the children and didn’t make any secret of the fact. Mostly because he didn’t have to.

  “Thank you,” Dr. Madad said.

  “Of course.”

  He might not like looking at her when he talked to her, but he needed her. And like it or not, she needed him. But what if she was wrong about her suspicions? Only one way to find out. “Doctor, I wanted to talk to you about something, if you—”

  Running footsteps caught her attention, and she turned to see Paksima dart around Hesther’s grasping hands. The six-year-old launched herself at Kristin, and she caught the child up in a hug, inhaling the little-girl scent. “What are you doing?” she asked in the Pashto language. “You’re supposed to be in school.”

  “I wanted to see you. I missed you.” She settled her head next to Kristin’s, and emotion swept over her. This little orphan had wormed her way into Kristin’s heart with very little effort. In a world that had given her nothing but pain, she offered joy, smiles, and love in return. “You need to get back to class before Teacher realizes you’re missing. I’ll come find you soon, okay? We’ll have a snack later before you go to bed and I’ll tuck you in.”

  “And say prayers?”

  Kristin cut her eyes to the doctor, who didn’t seem to be paying attention, but she wouldn’t assume anything. “Of course. We always say our prayers. I’ll make sure the prayer mats are in the room.” Even though the prayer mats were the same as those used by the other Muslim children and adults to pray, she and Paksima prayed to a different God. The one true God who could work miracles.

  Like the one she needed to discuss with Dr. Madad.

  “Okay.” Paksima skipped off, down the hall, back toward the classroom she shared with forty other children.

  “If the doctor is finished,” Hesther said to Kristin, “I’ll make sure Paksima gets back to class.”

  “He’s finished,” Kristin said.

  Hesther left, hurrying to catch up with the little girl.

  “You’ve become attached.” Dr. Madad grabbed his bag from the table, stepped past her, and walked toward the door.

  He didn’t approve. Of course he didn’t. “Dr. Madad, please wait.”

  He stopped but didn’t turn. “Yes?”

  “I want her to come live with me.” The words left her in a rush.

  He remained silent for a moment. “She already does,” he finally said. “You live here and so does she.” He spoke to the open doorway.

  “No, I mean . . .” She had to be careful. “I mean if I were to leave the orphanage for whatever reason, then I’d want the . . . ability . . . to take her with me.”

  He laughed. “Impossible.”

  “But I heard you could help me,” she said. “That you’ve made it possible for other Americans.”

  He set his bag down and spun, his eyes narrowed but finally locked on hers. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What I mean is, you do good work. You care about these children and they know that.”

  His wary gaze never wavered. “I have to earn their trust in order for them to let me help them.”

  “I know. And I want to help Paksima. No matter what it costs.”

  His eyes slid from hers once more. “You are helping her. By doing what you’re doing. There is nothing else you can do.”

  Frustration swamped her. “I know, but it’s a shame Americans can’t adopt these kids—the ones with no family. Like Paksima.” There. She’d said it.

  “You are not Muslim, therefore it is not possible and you shouldn’t bring it up again if you value your head.”

  A fission of fear spiked up her spine. She’d misspoken, misstepped. A move that could be deadly for her. “I’m sorry. I see that I’m mistaken. I must have . . . misunderstood.”

  “You must have. I would never risk my career—my life—ever. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “You will not start rumors of what you have just insinuated.”

  “No, oh, no, I wouldn’t, I promise. Like I said, it’s my mistake and I’m very sorry. In my desperation, I blundered. I meant no insult.”

  “Who did you hear this from?”

  “No one. It was just an observation. Obviously, it was . . . inaccurate.”

  He stayed silent, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, her stomach tumbling into a tight knot. She’d said too much. Risked and lost. Would he find a way to send her home—or worse, make her—or Paksima—disappear?

  “No.” He picked up his bag and strode down the hall. “I’ll be back next week,” he said without turning. “You have my number if he worsens.”

  “Of course.” He left without another word and Kristin frowned at his retreating back. She’d been so sure he could help her.

  She texted her friend and part-time orphanage volunteer.

  Dr. Madad refused to help me. He was very angry at my insinuation that he was involved in black market adoptions—not that I used those exact words, but close enough.

  She thought, then typed,

  Maybe I was wrong.

  The return text came through in under five seconds.

  He’s probably worried about trusting the wrong person.

  She replied, her fingers flying over the letters.

  Yeah, I sure understand that.

  And from what I’ve found, I don’t think you’re—we’re—wrong, but don’t be too overt. Do things to gain his trust.

  I’m afraid it may be too late for that.

  We’ll figure it out. My shift starts in a couple of hours. We’ll talk then.

  Okay.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’s not involved.

  But she was inclined to believe her instincts.

  The patterns say we’re not wrong and that he’s driven by greed. I really thought he’d go for it. Especially when you told him you were willing to do whatever it took, no matter the cost.

  I thought the same. I was telling myself that all I wanted to know is that the children were safe, but in truth, I was hoping he would say he would help me.

  Because if he had said it, she would have done it—found a way to pay him whatever he wanted in order to call Paksima her daughter.

  We’ll figure it out. Don’t give up hope.

  Of course. Thank you, Sarah.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Brooke pushed her coffee cup to the side and leaned forward. Folding her arms, she studied the man opposite her. “Okay, Asher, we’ve made small talk for the past thirty minutes. Will you tell me why you wanted to see me this morning?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Straight to the point, huh?”

  “Well, not really, but I think you’ll feel better if you get off your chest what you need to say.” A pause. “Even if it’s not what you necessarily want to say.”

  He looked away from her with a shake of his head. “I’m . . . wow.” His eyes connected with hers again. “I thought I’d developed a pretty good poker face at this point. How’d you read me that fast and easy?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think of it as reading you. But . . .” Brooke tilted her head. “Maybe it’s because deep down you recognize that I’m not really a threat to you. Regardless, I’m here to listen.”

  He stared at his half-finished cup of coffee. After another sip, he linked his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “I realize that we only met a few times in passing while we were in Afghanistan, but that day of the bombing . . .”

  “You pulled me out of there,” she said, her voice low.

  “I did.” He cleared his th
roat. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Your burns looked pretty bad, but I was more concerned about your smoke inhalation.”

  Brooke bit her lip, fighting the images that immediately bounded into the forefront of her mind. “The burns were mostly second-degree. A few spots were third on my arms and back and across my shoulders. I won’t be wearing a bathing suit anytime soon.” She rolled her sleeve up and showed him the still-healing areas on her forearms. “It’s been four months and I’m just now feeling up to resuming normal day-to-day operations—or life, I guess I should say, since I’m not serving in the Army anymore.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes as though she could scrub away the memories. It didn’t work. “I tried to get in touch with you. To thank you and your team for getting me out of there. If you hadn’t arrived when you did . . .” She looked away. It was still so very hard to talk about.

  “I know.” In a slow move, he slid his hand across the table to grip her fingers. “I’m glad we were there. I got the message—your thank-yous—eventually.”

  She frowned even as she took comfort in his touch. “How did you get there so fast? Was it just dumb luck that you guys were in the area and saw what happened?”

  “No, we were headed there for a reason.”

  “What reason?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It no longer exists.”

  She studied him for a brief moment. “You were going there to see Sergeant Michaels, weren’t you?”

  His hand tightened around hers for a fraction of a second, but his only other response was to raise a brow. “What makes you say that?”

  “A feeling.” When he said nothing, she closed her eyes. “I still see his face sometimes . . . and hear his voice.”

  She lifted her lids to see Asher sitting a little straighter, his eyes narrowed. “He spoke to you in the café?”

  “Well, not when he first walked in, but later, yes, briefly. As he was dying.” Her throat tightened.

  “What did he say?”

  “That he wasn’t a traitor and not to let them say he was.”

  He jerked like she’d punched him. “He said that? That he wasn’t a traitor?”

  “Yes.” Asher’s reaction intrigued her. “He also said that he didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “He never got that far. Just that he didn’t know.” They fell silent and Brooke finally said, “It’s my fault, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “That he was killed.”

  Asher let out a disbelieving laugh. “What? How is that possible? Why would you think that? A terrorist killed him with a bomb planted in the restaurant. A bomb that almost killed you.”

  “He came looking for me,” she said, thinking back to her impressions of that day. “He seemed to know I was going to be at the café and he came to find me.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “It was no secret my friends and I met regularly at that particular café—or as regularly as possible with our crazy schedules.”

  “You think he followed you?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. Frowned. “Actually, I know how he knew where to find me.”

  “How?”

  “I . . . can’t say.”

  “He was a client.”

  She groaned. “I can’t say.”

  “Yeah, you can because he told me himself that he was seeing you.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. He didn’t say much, just that listening to you talk was . . . soothing.”

  “Soothing?”

  “His word, not mine.” He gave her a half smile. “Apparently, you were the only chatty female who didn’t make him crazy.”

  “Good grief.” She looked away, the guilt building within her.

  “So how would he know where to find you?” Asher asked.

  Ugh. Brooke rubbed her eyes. “Sarah called to set up the day and time of our next get-together.”

  “The café.”

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure Isaiah overheard me and later remembered. Or something.”

  Asher shook his head. “But that doesn’t make sense. He had your undivided, confidential attention in your sessions. Why track you down at the bar?”

  Brooke paused. How could she put it without violating Isaiah’s right to confidentiality? “Okay, look. A lot of clients ordered to attend the sessions thought coming to see me was a waste of time, so they would sit there until the clock ticked down to the last minute and then leave.”

  “Isaiah did that?”

  “Yes. And sometimes clients wouldn’t show up at all. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it was a legitimate excuse, but most of the time, it wasn’t. We had an appointment the day he died—not his regular appointment time, but one he scheduled. I had hoped . . .” She waved a hand. “But, surprise, surprise, he never showed.”

  “He skipped it?”

  “Yes, and I had just seen him that morning on the base and reminded him of the appointment. He said he’d be there. It wasn’t the first time he ghosted me, or even the second. I wrote it off and figured he got sent out on a mission or something. Then I saw him in the café.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, then dropped her hand. “Which is why I was so mad at him. I thought he had a lot of nerve. I mean, he couldn’t meet me when he was supposed to but wanted me to give up my lunch date with my friends to speak to him? Well, that wasn’t happening.” She rubbed her eyes. “I was so selfish,” she whispered. “But I was also so empty. I had given everything and . . .” A tear dripped from her bottom lashes and she swiped it away. “There was just nothing left to give.”

  “I understand,” he said, his voice low.

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  She sniffed and drew in a breath. “Do you know what Isaiah meant when he said not to let them say he was a traitor?”

  He slid out of the booth in a smooth move and stood. “I can’t talk about it.” He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “Come on and I’ll follow you home, then I’ve got to go.”

  “Please, sit back down,” she said. If he walked out the door, she just might have to chase him down, because she had more questions that needed answers.

  Asher hesitated and pressed his fingers to his lids. When he finally opened his eyes, she gasped at the exposed torment there. Torment he masked so quickly, she wondered if she’d been seeing things. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because you still haven’t told me why you wanted to see me this morning.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.”

  He backed toward the door.

  “Um . . . Asher?”

  “What?”

  “You’re kind of making a scene.” Other patrons were watching them. Some using their peripheral vision, others outright staring.

  Asher pulled in a deep breath, then calmly walked back and dropped into the seat. “This was a mistake. I never should have come today.”

  “A mistake? Not from where I’m sitting. Your presence this morning makes twice that you’ve saved my life. I’m beginning to think I need to keep you around.”

  He gave her a small smile at her attempt to lighten the atmosphere. The smile lasted all of two seconds before sliding into a frown. “I saw the pictures in the paper and I—”

  “Wait a minute, you recognized me?”

  “Of course. I mean, if someone hadn’t seen you like I did right after the bombing and then later saw the picture, they wouldn’t know who you were. But I did. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I started thinking.” He clasped his hands. “You were there. You know what it was like. And . . . I need feedback from someone like that.”

  She frowned. “I wasn’t in combat or anything. What about your buddies who were in your squad?”

  His jaw tightened. “I talk to Gavin sometimes—when he’ll talk about it.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, the day
of the bombing, as we were heading to the café, there was an attack. Wiped out half our unit. We had to leave them there. Couldn’t even—” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Of those who are left, they’re scattered. Some are still serving, one’s turned into an alcoholic and is living a life of denial, and I just . . .” He spread his hands before clasping them once more. “You were there. You know. And you have the skills—” He blew out a breath. “Wow, I didn’t know trying to ask for help would be this hard.”

  She had been there. She did know. “What is it you need help with?” God help her, she felt like a fraud. She couldn’t deal with her own issues. What made her think she could help him? Instead of blurting out the truth, she swallowed the confession.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that day. About Isaiah and—you.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh,” she said. “Why me?”

  He gave her a gentle smile. “Probably because I carried you out of there and I wanted to make sure you were truly okay.”

  Brooke studied him. “Uh-huh.”

  “What?”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I thought maybe you could help me deal with some . . . stuff. From that day.”

  There. He’d said it. He’d admitted he needed help, and while he was tempted to get up and run out the door, she hadn’t even blinked. Instead, she continued to study him with those unwavering green eyes that had him convinced she could see straight into the deepest, darkest areas of his soul.

  “What exactly do you think I can help you with?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat as though that would somehow help him release the words. More words. “I have—I mean, some nights I have . . . It’s not so bad when—”

  “Nightmares,” she said.

  “Yes.” The word was clipped. “Nightmares. I’m okay during the day. As long as I stay pretty busy, I don’t have too many issues. Unless a car backfires or there’s an unexpected scream on the television or someone pulls up next to me at a stoplight or—”

  “Or a helicopter flies too low overhead?” she asked.

  “Exactly.” His heart rate slowed a notch. She got it.

  “But the nights are different.”