Page 2 of Dangerous Protocol
“Isla,” she called out to her eleven-, almost twelve-year-old daughter as she picked up the bags and carried them down the short hallway to the kitchen at the back of the cottage. “I picked up a little surprise for you.”
She set the bags on the counter and dug out the small box of torrones. Like her mother, Isla had quite the sweettooth, and she positively adored the soft almond nougat candies.
Maya told herself the treat was her daughter’s reward for her stellar progress in math and not a sneaky way of assuaging her own guilt for dragging her poor child all over the world. Sometimes with little more than a few hours’ notice.
Their latest home consisted of an eat-in kitchen, bathroom, front living room space, and two bedrooms. An exterior door in the kitchen opened to a tiny patio with a few potted plants and one small bistro table with two chairs. The yard, if you could call it that, was only big enough for a patch of grass about two meters square. Windows in every room brightened up the little cottage, and, when opened, allowed the breeze from the coast to cool the interior during hotter days. Best of all, the cobblestone lane was somewhat secluded and came to an end at the edge of a large wooded area.
Cefalù was a beautiful coastal city wedged between rugged mountains and a pristine shoreline. Small but not too small, it afforded Maya and Isla the anonymity required to survive.
She rented the cottage from Mrs. Gionetti, whose house was the only other residence on the dead-end path. The older woman’s property was substantially larger, giving her enough land for her small flower and vegetable gardens. Her husband passed away five years ago and herchildren all lived far away, which meant she had an overabundance of vegetables, which she kindly shared with Maya. And the fragrance from the flowers was better than any expensive perfume.
“Isla.” She picked up the box of candy and went in search of her daughter.
Isla was a voracious reader and had taken to writing a bit. Oftentimes, she became so engrossed in her stories that she simply shut out the rest of the world. Maya envied her daughter in that way, as she frequently wished she, too, could shut out the real world.
“Isla, my darling girl.” She tapped on the bedroom door, and it swung open with a long, drawn-out groan from one of the iron hinges.
Maya’s heart skipped a beat, and the box of candies slid from her hand.
Her daughter wasn’t sprawled on her bed with a book as expected, nor was she at her desk, scribbling away in one of her many notebooks.
Maya dashed across the hall to her own bedroom, and still, no Isla.
She wasn’t in the bathroom or the front living room area, nor on the patio.
She grabbed the front doorknob, took in a deep breath, and blew it out. She forced a smile, pulled open the door, and casually walked across to where Mrs. Gionetti still sat.
“Did you happen to see Isla while I was at the shop?” She looked up and down the small path, willing her daughter to appear.
“I did.” She looked up at Maya and placed her hand above her milky, brown eyes to shield them from the sun. “She was meeting her friend at the park.” She twisted to point in the general direction of their little neighborhood park.
Oh, God.Maya stifled the panic threatening to take her to her knees.
“Did she happen to share with you which friend she was meeting?” Her daughter didn’t have any friends. One of the many negative consequences of Maya’s life choices.
“No, she did not.” Her chubby hands gripped the armrests, and with a muted grunt, she hefted herself up from the chair and waddled over to Maya. “She said only that she was meeting her.”
“Well, then, I’ll just pop over there and get her.” Not wanting to alarm the older woman, she gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You know how children are. They easily lose track of time.”
“I am certain she is okay.” She patted Maya’s arm. “Well, I must get inside. It is time for my video call with my great-grandson. Have a good evening, child.”
“You, too.” Maya fast-walked to the street at the end of the path, checked for traffic, then hurried across to the park. At the entrance, a decorative fountain with anangel perpetually pouring water from a jug gurgled and splashed, attracting birds to its cool water. She scanned the area—the swings, jungle gym, slide, and the few benches scattered here and there.
There was no sign of Isla.
Two older men sat playing backgammon, and she ran over to them.
“Excuse me, have you seen a little girl with blond hair, about this tall?” She held her hand at about chest height.
The men looked at each other, mumbled something in Italian, then shrugged and gave her a confused look.
“No inglese.” This from the man wearing the faded fedora.
“Um, let me see.” She calmed herself and searched for the right words. “Hai visto una ragazzina con i capelli biondi, alta più o meno così.”
“Ah, sì.” The man with curly hair smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “Era seduta su quella panchina di pietra.”She was on that bench.He pointed to a stone bench between the playground area and the road that eventually led to SS113, one of the main highways traversing Sicily.
“Did you see her leave?” Maya asked in Italian.