Ada gestures to one of the cracked leather-buttoned chairs. “Sit, please.”
She turns to a small fridge in the corner and leans inside, giving Julia a flash of her chubby white thighs in the process.
“Would you have something to eat?” says Ada, glancing over her shoulder. “A little meze perhaps? Some olives?”
“No, thank you.”
Ada nods, pops an olive into her mouth, and passes Julia a bottle of water. She closes the fridge door then reaches inside the top drawer of a beautiful oak side-table and takes out a photo album.
“My son, Omer,” she says, giving the album cover a gentle caress.
Julia cracks open the water and washes down the Excedrin. “You have children? I didn’t realize.”
Ada’s smile fades. “Omer is gone now. For many years.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Ada pulls her chair close to Julia’s until the arms almost touch and opens the first page of the album. The album looks like something you might get in the 1980s, where the shots are displayed four to a page and wedged behind plastic sheeting that never sticks properly. Ada leafs through the pages, allowing Julia to take in what must have been Ada’s son’s entire life. Omer as a newborn, pink and wrinkly. Omer on his first birthday. Omer taking his first steps. Omer’s first day at school. Omer at university graduation pictured with a beaming Ada and a slight man who must have been his father. There are many more photos, mostly involving the Golden Horn Hotel. Omer as a toddler hoisted on his grandfather’s smartly suited shoulders. Omer as a preteen serving Turkish delight to guests. Omer as a young man behind the reception answering the phones. Then, quite abruptly, Omer as a gray-skinned corpse, wrapped in a plain cloth shroud, a wailing, tear-streaked Ada bent over him, his father standing at her shoulder looking just as grief-stricken.
“Oh, Ada, I’m so sorry.”
Ada stares at the photograph. “He is in paradise.”
“What happened?”
“He was a tour guide taking a group by minibus through the Parhar Mountains. A truck was coming the other way and caused a terrible accident. Omer was badly injured. They put him on the machine. Thirty-five days later they ask us to turn it off.”
“God, how awful.”
“His father never forgave himself for turning off the life support,” she says, closing the album.
“Is your husband still with us?”
Ada shrugs. “As far as I know. I have not seen him for over ten years.” She looks at Julia. “Your Leo. I think he is a good man.”
Julia lowers her eyes. “Yes, well, he has his moments.”
“I am thinking that he still loves you very much. Why are you still not married? Did he have an affair?”
Julia looks at her hands. “Mistakes were made on both sides.”
“Life is short. This I know. It is better to love and forgive, I think.” Ada pauses. “And your mother? Where is she?”
“She died a long time ago.”
“I see,” says Ada, nodding. “She would be proud of you, the way you search for your sister, the way you never give up.”
“I don’t know about that. She was lost in a world of her own most of the time.”
Ada reaches for Julia’s hand. “I know for certain she would be proud.” Ada breaks into another cough and withdraws her hand to cover her mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” she sputters.
Julia passes her the bottled water. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”
Ada sips the water and sits back. “A tumor as big as my fist.”
“Do you have any family who can help?”
Ada’s eyes land on the wall of family portraits. “This hotel has been in my family for three generations. My great-grandfather built it from nothing. Worked day and night. But now business is not good. Airbnb takes the customers and the hotel needs repairs. They cost a lot of money. It is too much for one sick old lady. I have an offer. I might take it. Go down the coast to Kas, for the sunshine, to die in peace.” She looks at Julia. “What else am I to do?”
The door flies open, startling them both. Detective Muhtar fills the space.
Julia stands up. “What is it?”
He looks at her and bursts into tears.
58
“He’s dead.”
Ada and Julia stare at Detective Muhtar in shock.
“Mustafa Saat is dead.” Detective Muhtar wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand and looks at Julia. “I’m sorry.”
Julia lowers herself into the chair, not quite believing it.
She glances up at the detective. “Are you sure?”
He nods grimly. “His body was dumped on the Iranian border. His tongue pulled out by the root.”
“Babak Saglam?”
“Almost certainly.”
They will never find Toni now. Not with Mustafa gone.
“That’s not all.” His face goes slack. “They killed Beren, too.”
Julia’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, no.”
“They were not as brutal as they were with Saat. No torture, just a single shot to the head.”
“This is our fault,” says Julia, bereft. “She was only trying to help us.”
Speaking gently, Detective Muhtar says, “Beren made the decision to track down Saat on her own, Dr. Norris. She would have understood the risks.”
Julia bites her lip. “That doesn’t matter. If we hadn’t asked her for help, she would still be alive.” She blinks at the ceiling. “God, what a mess.”
She gets to her feet and crosses the floor, stopping to face the painting on the wall.
Eventually, she says, “Saat was the only chance we had
