Blame. How could I not blame myself? It was easy to blame Omar. Marina did not know the brutality of marriage, the banality of motherhood. Alba was with me when she was taken, I was responsible, how could I spare myself from the residue of responsibility? All that I thought I knew about love, friends and family—everything I knew had been compromised. I had to redefine everything from scratch. And it had to start with myself.

But love, Marina was in the throes of love with Mr Ferrari.

He says he loves me. He is the kindest, gentlest, most generous person. And he wants to be with me! He says that I am his soul mate, that he has been searching for me his whole life. Can you imagine?

Yes, I could imagine her happiness. Marina, who had come from the backwaters of Sabah, who had to spread her legs every night for men who spat at her and called her filthy names would one day find love—and happiness. I too had it, for a few years only, but I did have it, once.

He’s very well connected, he knows a lot of people in KL, you know. Gangsters, he knows them. In the construction business, it’s all run by these people. Bloody gangsters, they control everything in KL. Even politicians are involved you know?

I recalled that moment in the club when Karin introduced the man with the long fingernail. Your husband is not a good man, he makes bad deals.

Your boyfriend. Can you ask him if he knows anything about trafficking in KL?

I told her what Inspector Awang had told Omar and me. Marina listened intently, smoked cigarette after cigarette and then said, very quietly.

I know of a woman who sells babies. I’ve heard of a girl who sold her baby once. This was a few months ago. This woman is very bad, she runs an adoption agency, but she sells the babies to couples who cannot have children.

A woman who sells babies? Like babies that are just born or toddlers? How old?

I don’t know, I need to ask more.

I stood up and bent over, my stomach heaving with pain and relief. A realm of possibility had opened up. Perhaps Alba had been sold to a childless couple in KL. Perhaps she was in a happy home somewhere in the city. Perhaps she was really and truly all right. Then again, perhaps not. I had to find her. But how?

The doorbell rang and Omar knew that it was Nim. He drained the last of his whisky and glanced at his watch. It was almost 10pm. He opened the door. Nim stood outside, dressed in a knee-length grey dress with long sleeves. She smiled and held out her hand.

“Hi there, good to see you,” she said.

Omar took her hand and shook it lightly, he thought it slightly formal, but perhaps it was the best option, under the circumstances.