by Leylah Attar
“I get that,” said Mo. “I get it, Gabriel. We all do what we have to. But what does this have to do with any of that?”
“Today . . .” He glanced at the ceiling, as if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. “Today, I picked up a truck and drove it to the mall. It’s in the underground parking lot. I met a guy in the food court and handed him the keys, just like I’d been told to.”
“So?” Mo wanted to shake him. He was talking in circles. “How is that Plan B?”
“The truck I drove? It’s packed with explosives, Mo. Someone is rigging John Lazaro’s car as we speak. If he tries to get away, they’ll blow it up, and everything else along with it. That’s why we have to leave. They’re still fighting, which means John Lazaro is still alive. And as long as he’s alive, as long as there’s a chance that he’ll slip out, we’re not safe here. We’re not safe anywhere in this mall.”
“No.” Mo’s thoughts were jagged and painful. “Gabriel. No. All those innocent people.”
“Exactly!” Gabriel’s eyes flashed with something wild and fierce. “All those innocent people. Do you know what John Lazaro does? He drinks albino blood. He thinks it makes him powerful and invincible. He thinks it will help him win the election. I just did my job, Mo. I did what I always do. I delivered the goods. But if I’m completely honest, I want John Lazaro to die. I want him to die before any more innocent people lose their lives, including my daughter! The rest of it, I’ll have to live with. I’ll have to turn a blind eye, just like everybody else does, to the injustices that go on right under their noses, because they’re powerless, or afraid, or profiting from it. And if I burn in hell for it, then so be it. At least Scholastica will have one less monster coming after her.”
They were both crying, Mo and Gabriel, with tears streaming down their faces—Mo trying to come to terms with what she’d just learned, and Gabriel trying desperately to make her understand. Then slowly, tentatively, they moved toward each other, eyes searching eyes, probing the depths of friendship and betrayal.
“You came back for me,” said Mo. “You could have left me, but you came back.”
“I could never have left you. It was never a choice.”
Mo sobbed in his arms. Gabriel Lucas. He was both the angel and the devil.
“We need to leave now,” he said. “Let’s get the girl and go.”
“That might be a problem. Lily is convinced that her father is going to come and get her.”
“Let me have a go.” Gabriel walked over to where Lily was hiding and peered under the stage skirt. “Lily, what’s your father’s name?”
There was no reply. After a while, she asked, “Where’s Mo?”
“I’m right here, Lily. It’s okay. You can tell him.”
“My dad’s name is Jack,” she replied. “Jack Warden.”
“How about you come out of there, and we call your dad. Would that be okay?” Gabriel coaxed Lily out. “That’s right. Good girl. Now. What’s his number?”
Lily called out a string of numbers but trailed off. “I think that’s when I dial from Cape Town.” She tried again, but her face fell. “I’m not sure what the rest of it is. My mummy always dials it for me.”
“That’s okay. We’ll call the operator. She’ll be able to tell us.”
It was amazing how calm Gabriel was with her. Mo knew that it was taking everything for him not to swoop her up and carry her outside, kicking and screaming. It would be too much of a risk though, especially if she tried to break loose and got caught in the line of fire.
Mo glanced at her watch. It seemed like they’d been there forever, and yet it wasn’t long at all. Everything seemed to stretch out—each breath, each word, each tense, weighted moment, as Gabriel tried to get through to Jack. Mo knew the exact moment when Gabriel decided they were wasting precious time. His eyes changed as he spoke into the phone.
“Yes, operator. That’s him. Can you please put me through?” He waited a while before continuing. “Hi, Jack? I’m in the mall with Lily. She’s waiting for you to come and get her. Where are you? I see. No, she’s fine. Of course. I’ll let her know. We’ll see you soon.” He ignored Lily’s attempts to grab the phone and hung up. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have time for that right now. You can talk to him soon. You were right. He’s on his way. He’s almost here, but he said it will be faster if we meet him at the safe place.”
“The safe place? Where’s the safe place?”
“Come with me. I’ll get you there.” He held his hand out to Lily. She stared at it for a few beats and then looked at Mo.
“I’m right behind you,” said Mo. “We’ll all go together.”
As soon as Lily placed her hand in Gabriel’s, everything changed. Everything slow became fast again. It was like they had slipped through another dimension. They were back in the midst of chaos, except there was less of a crowd now. Those who hadn’t fled were sprawled on the floor, hurt or dead—it was hard to tell—while the two parties continued exchanging fire.
Gabriel spun around when they got to the escalator. “It’s been blocked off.” He picked Lily up and made a dash for the lift. “Come on, Mo!” But there was a stack of tables and chairs blocking it too. John Lazaro’s enemies had used his own gathering against him. All the exits and stairwells had been blocked.
“Shit!” exclaimed Gabriel.
He scanned the lower level. John Lazaro was holed up behind one of the fast food counters, flanked by his men. They were shooting blindly in all directions. Bullet holes sprayed the walls. Bits of mortar flew into the air.
“The parking lot,” said Gabriel. “It’s our only way out.”
“But his car’s in there.”
“We either stay in here or we go out there. Either way, we’re taking a chance.”
“Keep going!” said Mo, following closely behind him.
“Is my daddy going to be there?” asked Lily.
“Yes,” replied Gabriel. “We’re meeting him at the safe place. Remember?” He let her down and knelt before her. “Now, I want you to run as fast you can, okay? The faster you run, the faster you can see your daddy.”
Lily nodded and held her hand out to Gabriel. “Can I run with you?”
There was something about Gabriel that drew her to him. Maybe it was because he was a father too. Whatever Lily sensed in him, it seemed to soften his heart. Mo’s heart caught in her chest as Gabriel took Lily’s small hand in his.
“I’ll try to keep up,” he said.
And then they were running through the parking lot, toward the ramp going up. Their footsteps bounced off the concrete walls, echoing with their breath. They were halfway up the first ramp when they heard the throttle of an engine revving up. There was a loud screeching, a spinning of the wheels as the car reversed out of its parking spot. The sharp, zing of bullets on metal followed, and then the sound of a car driving toward the ramp.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lily, when Gabriel stopped in his tracks. “Let’s go! We need to get to the safe place.” She tugged his hand.
Mo and Gabriel exchanged a look. If that was John Lazaro’s car, about to come around the bend, they were out of time.
Suddenly, a deep calm settled over Mo. For the first time in her life, she just wanted to stand still—for these last few seconds. They were hers, and they were glorious. She could feel the thunder of her heart, the air rushing in and out of her lungs. It was beautiful—being alive. It was enough to know and to have known.
Together, Mo and Gabriel ushered Lily to the corner, where one ramp met the other.
“This is it,” said Gabriel. “This is the safe place. I’m going to call your father and let him know, okay?” He punched in some numbers. Mo held Lily’s hand as he spoke into the phone. “Hello, Jack? We’re here. Yes, Lily’s right here, too. She’s a very brave girl. You must be so proud of her. Hold on, I’ll tell her . . .” He turned to Lily. “Your daddy says he’ll be here very soon, and he loves you very much.”
“Ca
n I talk to him now?” she asked, holding her hand out like she was claiming a prize. There was no one at the other end of the line, but Gabriel let the phone slip from his hand.
“Of course,” he replied, a flicker of something bittersweet crossing his eyes.
“What about you?” asked Mo. “Aren’t you going to make that call?”
“Nobody knows I’m here, Mo. Not Anna, and not Scholastica. It’s better that way. I don’t want them to live with the shame of knowing what I’ve done. I don’t want that to be my legacy to my daughter. It’s ironic. I did it all for Scholastica, so I could keep her safe, so I could give her the life she deserves. And now she’s going to grow up without me. If she grows up.” His eyes welled up.
“Shhh. You’re a good dad. And you’ve done a lot for other people’s children too. You’ve risked your own life to get them to safety sometimes. Someone will step up. Someone will make sure Scholastica is looked after.”
“Daddy?” Lily stared at the phone. “He’s not saying anything.” She handed the phone back to Gabriel.
“Maybe he got cut off. Let’s try again.” Gabriel pretended to dial Jack again. “It’s ringing now. Here you go.”
As Lily bent her head over the phone, it was impossible to ignore the sound of the approaching car.
“When?” Mo asked Gabriel.
“I don’t know.”
Mo gave him a slow, wistful smile. “Let’s save one more?”
Gabriel stared at her for a few still beats. “Let’s.”
They cocooned Lily between their bodies, knowing that the blast would destroy everything within its radius. But maybe, just maybe, they could take the brunt of it for Lily.
As the car sped up the ramp, Mo and Gabriel caught a brief glimpse of John Lazaro in the back seat. They braced themselves, forehead to forehead, arms around each other, shielding Lily in the middle.
“Daddy?” said Lily. Her face was all lit up as she spoke into the phone. “I’m in the safe place now.”
WHERE DO STORIES come from? How do they form and flow and find their way into our world? How do we take sparks of inspiration and bind them between the covers of a book, project them onto the big screen, or transform them into the notes of our favorite song? The creative process is a magical thing that lets us take thoughts, ideas, and feelings—those ethereal, intangible pieces—and condense them into reality. I cannot begin to explain how it works because it’s different for every one, every time, but I can take you behind the scenes and show you the events, people, and circumstances that inspired this book.
After I finished my last novel, The Paper Swan, I knew two things. One, that my next book would be set in Africa. Two, that it would be a love story. I let it go and waited for that spark, that rush, that knowing, that sets you sailing on a new adventure.
A few weeks later, I had dinner with Dr. Nasmo1*, who had just returned from Tanzania. Dr. Nasmo is an optometrist who was born in Tanzania but lives in the U.S. As a child, he suffered from poor eyesight, a condition that went uncorrected until a volunteer mission came to his village and fitted him with glasses. So impactful was this gift of sight, that he based his career around it. He now makes annual trips to Tanzania to help prevent blindness and vision impairment by providing free eye exams and glasses in rural areas. He is an inspirational figure, and I always look forward to the times when our paths cross.
On this particular trip, Dr. Nasmo had visited an orphanage for children with albinism. Tanzania has one of the highest concentrations of albinos in the world. People with albinism lack pigment and usually have a number of eye conditions, including poor vision and sensitivity to light. Ninety-nine percent of the kids that Dr. Nasmo examined at the orphanage needed vision correction. As we flipped through the photos from his trip, he showed me a video of an albino girl playing with a piece of string. She dropped it and attempted to pick it up several times, but failed, because she couldn’t find it.
Vision is not the only issue that children with albinism struggle with in parts of Africa. Thought to have magical powers, their body parts are bought and sold for thousands of dollars on the black market, for use in potions said to bring wealth and good luck.
I could not sleep that night. The powerful images I had seen kept flashing before my eyes. I recalled a similar night, when a friend had sent me a news article on the Westgate Mall attack, also in East Africa, where I lived for many years. Somehow the two events got linked in my head. When I got out of bed the next morning, something had crystallized from all the bits and pieces that had been circling my mind. Although the circumstances around the tragic Westgate Mall incident were vastly different from the fictional Kilimani Mall attack, a story had started to form.
It was not a story I wanted to tell. It felt too big and too real, and I didn’t know if I could do it any justice, so I stored it away. But it kept knocking and knocking until I opened the door and let it in.
Aside from the conception of the story, the following pieces of truth have been woven into the fiction:
- The villages on Mo’s sticky notes are named after real victims of albino attacks.
- Amosha is a fictional place, derived from the towns of Arusha and Moshi, in the Kilimanjaro region.
- Josephine Montati’s name is inspired by a woman who started a non-profit organization to help children from crisis zones get custom prostheses for missing limbs.
- The illegal rubber duck race in the Cotswolds is not fiction.
- John Lazaro is named after two albino contract killers in Tanzania.
- Scholastica is the name of one of the children in Dr. Nasmo’s notes from the albino orphanage.
- Aristurtle is the name I gave my little brother’s tortoise when we were kids. My brother kept losing him and we would tiptoe around the apartment until he was found.
Ultimately, this book is a work of fiction. I have sought to entertain and inform through the filter of my experiences, imagination, encounters, and research. It is not my aim to depict or represent any given event or situation.
Last but not least, my thanks to the flame of mad magic that burns in us all, and that connects us in wonderful, unknown ways.
With love,
Leylah
* * *
1 * name changed to protect privacy
DR. NASMO, THIS story would not have been possible without that chance meeting with you. Your work changes lives. What an incredible privilege it is to watch that unfold.
Hang Lee (By Hang Le), your covers are pure magic. They speak to me without saying a single word.
Lea Burn (Burn Before Reading), my fantastic editor, thank you for working through the holidays to meet the deadline. I am knitting you a scarf with all my redundant commas. It is nice and cozy and will wrap around you many, many times.
Christine Estevez, I can’t imagine this journey without you. Thank you for proofreading, and seeing me through another book. I like holding hands with you.
Christine Borgford (Type A Formatting), my phenomenal formatter—always meticulous, always on the ball. My books aren’t real until you’ve worked your wizardry on them. And that feeling when I’m holding one of your beautiful eARCs or paperbacks for the first time? That’s all you!
Soulla Georgiou. Here we are. And what a ride it’s been. Where do I even begin? Thank you for your unwavering support, your friendship, and for putting put up with me even though I refuse to use my cell. I love you mucho, mucho!
Mara White, my immense gratitude for filling in the blind spots, and sharing your vision and insight. Love always.
My agent, Amy Tannenbaum—thank you for your invaluable input on this project, and for standing in my corner.
K. Larsen, Layla Boutazout, Lisa Chamberlin, Luisa Hansen, Priscilluh Perez, Saffron Kent—with great affection and appreciation for your early feedback on these pages.
To the countless readers, dedicated bloggers, and book lovers who spend hours reading, reviewing, and sharing, thank you is not enough for all the things you do.
You are the pulsing beat of the book community. You are what keeps it fresh and vibrant and alive. You inspire me to keep writing, and to write better.
To every person who has taken the time to contact me, made beautiful art out of words that have touched them, poured their hearts into creating book-related tokens, I am immensely humbled, and grateful for your gifts of kindness.
My author friends, I can’t tell you how many times I have picked up one of your brilliant books and wished I could write the same magic. You inspire me, not just as writers, but by being the brave, generous, inspiring souls that you are—everyday, in so many ways. It is impossible to list you all here, so from my heart to each of yours, thank you.
Big love for the little band of Leylaholics Book Nook—I may not be able to squeeze you all in here, but my heart is fully expandable, and sometimes it sounds like an accordion. So you get music too.
A big shout out to the BBFT crew, This is Indie/This is Romance, and all the wonderful collaborations that I am fortunate and honored to be a part of.
My friends. My life is rainbowier because of you. And smileyer. I can make up words and you still know what I’m saying. I love you more than all the dead people in Game of Thrones. I mean in number. Because they’re dead so they can’t really love you. Also, they never met you. Unless you count that one time Amanda met Jason Momoa. That she keeps reminding us of. Bish.
My son. The best, brightest corner of my life. I am so proud to be your Kuriboh.
My husband. My sweet, amazing, incredible man. I fall in love with you more every day, and we’ve been at it a while now. Thank you for making me breakfast every morning, and for not giving up on Funny Face Egg. You looooove me.
