I studied her. “You’re being awfully hard on yourself.”
She slanted an arched look in my direction. “Must be a family trait.”
I shrugged, averting my gaze. It was second nature to berate myself into thinking I could have done more, been better, acted faster. Sometimes nothing I did felt like it was enough. And other times, the things I did do were often wrong. Perhaps it was a family trait, and I was too much like Mamá. We’d come up to Whit and Farida by then, and I chose not to respond to Isadora’s observation, but her words stuck with me, unnerving me.
This was the most amount of consecutive time I’d spent with her, and it was galling to learn how easily she could read me, especially when I was still trying to figure myself out, considering what my mother did to me.
To my father. To Isadora, even.
But I was beginning to understand how yearning for my parents, wanting their attention, and missing them terribly when they were gone half the year while traveling in Egypt had shaped me into the person that I was now. It was why I craved a family, a sense of belonging.
To fit somewhere.
And I often blamed myself, or wastoo hard on myself,because maybe there was a small part of me that believed there had been something wrong with me, and that was the reason why my parents left me behind.
Every year. For months.
I felt the weight of Whit’s gaze, and I wondered if he could feel the tension radiating off me, the sudden grief coating my skin, but I kept my gaze straight ahead. The abandoned building, evidently once used by the government, was flanked by handsomely constructed homes with arched windows and paneled glass. We stood off to the side, half-hidden by lush greenery and prickly palms that overflowed onto the street. Whit studied the exterior of our destination, and then looked over to the three of us quietly waiting. I wasn’t surewhywe were waiting. The entrance was clearly a large door that had once been painted chartreuse but had long since faded and chipped down to something resembling wilted lettuce.
“None of us have an invitation,” Isadora said suddenly. “How will we get inside?”
“There’s a side door,” I said. “Perhaps we can sneak in that way?”
“Let’s go,” Whit said. “Everyone behind me.”
We hustled after him as he crossed the street, glancing both ways. The side door was little more than a narrow entry, something designed for servants. Whit pushed and stuck his head around the edge; half a second later, he jerked backward and flattened his palms on the wood. He gave a violent shove, and a loud smack came from the other side. Something slumped to the ground with a loud thud, and Whit once again pushed the door, shoving until he could open it fully.
He walked inside, motioning for us to follow. When I went through, I made the mistake of glancing down at the man sprawled across our path.
Whit had hit a guard hard enough to render him unconscious.
There wasn’t time to check on him. Whit was already rounding the corner at the end of the corridor, which opened to a dusty kitchen, cobwebs in every corner, rusty iron pots and pans hanging along the wall, and shelves laden with jars filled with flour and the like. The sounds of raucous shouting drifted into the confined space, people yelling—though not in anger, but rather in palpable excitement. I glanced up to the ceiling, noting the direction of where the noise was coming from. The auction must be taking place upstairs.
We needed to locate the staircase.
The problem was the two men playing cards at the rickety wooden dining table. They turned in their chairs, gaping, one of them already reaching for the revolver at his elbow.
Whit threw one of the pans, and it spun, handle over handle, until it slammed into his face, catapulting him off his seat. His bloody tooth flew in my direction, and I scuttled out of the way with a muffled shriek. The other man reached for his gun, but by then Whit had taken the now-empty chair and swung it hard at the man’s head. He crumpled onto the table.
It was over and done within a matter of seconds.
Isadora picked up the gun and tucked it into her belt. “You are so violent.”
It sounded like a compliment.
Farida shook her head, half-amazed, half-shocked. “I’ve never seen this side of you.”
Whit went to the stove and sniffed inside a steaming pot. He smiled to himself and retrieved a cup, which he blew into to rid it of dust. “Thank God.”
“Are you having tea?” I exclaimed.
“Coffee,” he said reverently, pouring a generous serving into the mug. “Would you like some?”
I stared at him. The noise above us grew louder; sounds of chairs scraping against the floor over and over again infiltrated the kitchen.
“We ought to—” I began.
Whit downed his coffee and then turned to shove the guard slumped over the table with his boot, and the man fell hard onto the floor. Then Whit calmly picked up both chairs and walked to the door. “Let’s go.”
