Of course I blamed myself, how could I not? I loved my child, but my inability to look after her, at times, meant that I was just human, or did it not mean that? Should I have employed an army of minders to look after her? To help stave all manner and possibility of casualty? Was having a maid some form of insurance? Was I a bad mother? Was it my fault? I could barely remember the litany of curses I cast that day. I was not myself, I was a mother exhausted beyond comprehension, I was just simply, tired. I did not mean what I said, but perhaps what I said had been heard by the dark gods, that they had set their evil plans into motion, that I was undeserving of my child, that I was at fault. That I was a terrible person, for willing my child to not have been born. There it was, I said it.

And with Omar, he had forgiven me again and all was good until we got that call, that call that would change everything.

I had just finished yoga and I was walking to my car when my handphone started flashing. It was Omar.

They’ve found something. We need to go to Bukit Aman, right now.

My hands started shaking on the steering wheel, the sweat that had dried on my forehead broke out again. Traffic was starting to swell. I drove as steadily as I could, past the slope on the Bangsar hill, past the traffic lights on Jalan Maarof onto Jalan Bangsar, past the National Museum and onto the roundabout, past the National Mosque, up the slope, past the Islamic Museum, the Butterfly Farm, the Bird Park and onto the slip road that led to the Police Headquarters at Bukit Aman. Bukit—Hill. Aman—Peace. Hill of Peace, ironic indeed.

Omar was already there. He walked quickly towards me as I got out of my car.

What’s going on? What have they found? My teeth were already chattering from fear.

He shook his head. Then his phone rang. Yes, yes, we’re outside. We’re walking in now.

At the security, we gave them our ICs and they waved us through the side gate, curious eyes looking at me in my yoga pants, Omar in his blue suit. PT Raja stood outside the glass doors, looking grim. He nodded and led us inside, the cold air blasted my face. Omar was holding onto me, tight, his fingers later leaving a mark on my arm. I looked at him, his mouth was set in a grim line.

The conference room was full of police officers, standing on one side of the wall. I smiled weakly at Inspector Awang. How I used to harass him. How I used to pummel him with questions. We were asked to sit across three officers. A tall turbaned Sikh police officer stood up, held up some notes in his hand and started speaking.