Irum’s lips parted. The hope blooming across her face broke Hena’s heart.
Before Hena could tell her that Haris hadn’t put much stock in it, that he suspected this was the detective’s ruse to get her talking, Irum spoke again.
“Was Kiran right?” she asked, almost to herself. “Did sheactuallysee him?”
Hena stiffened. “What?”
“Kiran. She said she saw him,” Irum said, excitement rising in her voice. “A few days ago. At Las Olas.”
“Sh-she saw Nasir?”
“Well, she said she saw someone who looked like him. I didn’t think anything of it. She didn’t talk to him or even get a picture, and she said he was dressed like a hobo with oversized sunglasses. Does that even sound like Nasir?” She shook her head, half laughing. “I figured it was Kiran being Kiran. You know, gossip for gossip’s sake. I didn’t even dare tell my mother. I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up.” Her eyes were brighter. “But, maybe? Maybe it was him?”
Hena’s pulse ticked up. Could Milcheck have been telling the truth? Did he really get a ping from Nasir’s phone? And if they traced him to Homestead…
She pulled out her phone. She scrolled to his name in her contacts. Three years later, there he was. Brown hair parted to the side. A photo she’d captured mid-laughter. She pressed the call button. Held the phone to her ear.
“Straight to voicemail.”
“But it could have been on for a little while.” Her smile wavered. “It’s why my father won’t cut the line. He said he’d leave it just in case. So…maybe?”
A dull ache throbbed in Hena’s head. She needed to tell Haris about Kiran. What she thought she’d seen. Soon. But before that, there was something else Hena needed to know.
“The detective said someone at the wedding accused me of being involved in Nasir’s disappearance,” she said.
She studied Irum’s face as this sank in.
“Are you serious?” Irum said, blanching. “Does Lulu know?”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet. With everything going on, it’s hard to find the right time.”
“She needs to know. This…this is beyond the pale. Isn’t there enough for them to gossip about? There has to be a limit.”
She seemed genuinely surprised. And angry. Which meant she probably hadn’t called in the tip.
“I’m scared to ask, but…how deep in the hole was he?” she asked Hena. “My brother?”
“The hole?” Hena repeated.
“His gambling. Whatever happened was related to that, right?” Taking in Hena’s surprised expression, Irum sighed. “I knew,” she said. “My parents did too. They’ll deny it if you ever ask them, but he’d skimmed money off them when I was in high school. I’d hear the fights.”
It seemed Nasir’s gambling problem was the worst-kept secret there was.
“He swore he was clean,” Hena told her. “He’d given me no reason to doubt his word.”
“Hard to trust an addict, though, right?”
Hena flinched at Irum’s harsh tone. “He wasn’t—”
“He was.” Irum’s eyes grew moist. “Sometimes you have to call things what they are. It pisses me off sometimes. How everyone refused to face facts, indulging him like they did, forgiving him each time he fucked up. It led to everything getting worse.”
Her words landed like a punch. Because by “everyone,” Irum included Hena too. Which was fair. Each time Nasirvowed to do better, promised he was done, she allowed herself to believe it. What if she’d put her foot down the first time she’d learned of his addiction? How different could things have been? Maybe he could have gotten the help he’d needed sooner. Maybe things wouldn’t have gotten as bad as they had.
A bell chimed. A woman in a flowing red dress informed them it was time for their session. They stepped into the low-lit home draped in gauzy fabrics and decorated with murals of seascapes.
Mariela was in her fifties, plain-faced but with piercing green eyes and blond hair pulled back in a low knot. On each wrist, she wore an assortment of bangles. She had a feathery shawl draped over her shoulders and a cream blouse with a flowing skirt. She’d leaned so deep into her fortune teller persona, it was like she was cosplaying one. This must have been what Lulu meant by kitschy.
Mariela pulled out a leather-bound book and a pen, setting them on her table. Clasping her hands together, she addressed the crowd.