Aziz remembered Heather in Mourad’s arms yesterday, the way they enclosed each other. He remembered Ghazi’s reaction: overpleased, overfriendly, later testy, picking at Mourad. He saw Mourad watching Heather’s ways with Ghazi. He could tell Heather felt watched—by both of them. In these heavy branches, Lahouari was a twig.

“Cousin, tuck away your hope,” Aziz said. “Heather, she loves you like a brother. In this country, that means . . . many things.”

Chapter 31

31

Linda Ricco, red-mad from hospital bills and collection agencies, kept turning a corner. This one. No, that was Webster. Was it Webster? She thought maybe it was Bridge. On this street there were only two houses that had windows. The rest plywood. She sat down on the steps at one of them and lit up a cigarette. No one around this place. Jesus. She should watch herself. She could have sworn she’d seen Heather’s BMW around here.

She was on her way to pick up a friend from work when she first saw it. She was late, so she couldn’t stop, couldn’t check it out, couldn’t write down the street. Last week, when she tried to find the car again, she couldn’t. Spent an afternoon, a Sunday, going in circles. This weekday was no better. She decided to try around dinner next time.

They were in the biography section. The library was about to close. Five more minutes, Ghazi heard the loudspeaker voice say. She took her breast in her hand and offered it to his mouth. The lights were cascading off, aisle by aisle. Soon the dark would reach the aisle of shelves where they were kneeling. They would be locked in for the night.

He moved in and out of watching himself. Disgusted with himself and then so hungry for her. Revolted at the pointlessness, the repeating without end of it; starving for the closeness, driven to it recklessly. He turned her away and lifted her ass. She flinched when he entered, then he pulled her against his chest, so her neck, her jaw, and, when he turned her head, her lips, were available to him. He pushed her gently against the shelves so his other hand could go free around her. He kissed insistently. He was up her ass, with a hand inside her, his lips on her achingly fine face. Her heart and her trembling and her breathing were his. Closer was not possible. More of her could not be had. He began to tell her, silently, that he had to know her, had to know each thought she had ever felt or known. He went on like this until there was salt in his mouth. He was confused, not sure where he was. Then he realized she was crying. Her face was all tears, her chest wet with them. What was her name? What was her name. Megan. It was Megan.

“Megan.”