Page 77 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Not immediately. Should I?”
“She’s missing, and possibly in trouble. Look carefully,” he said. Ava reengaged her attention.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, peering down with greater interest.
“The kind that got Ronan Foley killed,” MacAdams said.
“I told you, I didn’t know Ronan Foley.”
“That’s strange. He called your house several times.”
“Well, I never spoke to him.”
“You’re sure?” MacAdams asked. Ava’s gaze could freeze quicksilver.
“I am,” she assured him.
Thankfully, Green picked up the broken thread. We’re asking because he’s been keeping company with this girl,” she said,crossing the room. Now she and Ava looked at the sketch together. “Young. Very young, we gather. Vulnerable.”
“Is she an immigrant?” Ava asked.
It surprised MacAdams—Green, too.
“Why would you ask that, Ms. Burnhope?”
Ava handed back the drawing and fixed her with those pale eyes.
“I spend most of my time in charity work for refugees. Most of them are young—very young—and vulnerable.”
“We think she’s in trouble,” Green said.
“Trouble is whatmakesa refugee,” Ava assured her. “Ukraine, Gaza.”
“And Syria,” MacAdams said suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s where Maryam comes from, isn’t it?” MacAdams asked. “You said she’d been with you for a year, from Syria.” Ava’s face remained placid as ever, but the hard edge had returned again.
“I don’t see why that is relevant.”
“Don’t you?” Green asked. “You could scarcely find more trouble than the Syrian crisis. Thirteen years of people displacement—”
“Funding war crimes through traffic in artifacts,” MacAdams added. “Like the ones we found in York.”
“Iknowof the horrors,” Ava said tersely. “Better than you. And I don’t condone the looting of vulnerable cultures. But frankly, I don’t see what that has to do with Maryam or why you insist on asking me about her.”
“All right. Let’s talk about Fresh Start instead,” MacAdams said. “How many Syrian refugees have you sponsored?”
“Many. Obviously.” Ava stood up and walked to the tall windows. “You say you know how terrible it is there. Have you seen it? Have you looked into the eyes of children who have?”She wrapped her arms around her willowy frame, despite the sun and its warmth. “I suppose for you I’m a wealthy socialite, making good on my charitable giving. Don’t think I haven’t heard that before.”
Her voice changed with emotion; the velvety quality grew somehow stronger, more intense and varied. A symphony.
“We cannot take them all,” she said, still looking away over the manicured gardens. “We bring a few, and they weep at night for their sisters and brothers, cousins and grandparents. Why can’t we save them?”
When Ava turned about, her glass-like eyes held unfallen tears.
“Do you know what it’s like to say wecan’t? Half of Maryam’s family remains behind. We don’t even know if they are still alive. All this—allthis—” she swept her arm about the room with its bespoke furnishings “—and we cannot save them all because of paperwork and politics and because no onecares.”
