Free The Other Side of Blue by Valerie O. Patterson Page A

healed over only on the outside. Underneath the wound is still raw, with too many questions left unanswered.
    Maybe the commissioner knows Mayur’s cousin. Maybe I can find him here. I can confront him myself to see what he knows. Then I won’t have to give Mayur the satisfaction of holding something over me until I beg him to tell me.
    I lead us to the shell-white building with the flag out front.
    â€œLet’s go in,” I say.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œIt’s where the commissioner’s office is.”
    â€œWhat are we going to do here?” Kammi gives me a frown.
    â€œI just have a question.”
    Kammi doesn’t move forward when I begin to climb the steps.
    â€œI don’t think I’ll go in,” she says.
    â€œOkay. Just wait here. I don’t want to have to tell Mother I lost you.” I don’t wait to see what she does.
    At the top I push through the door. A guard stands at the entrance. He leans against the counter with the hip that doesn’t have a sidearm buckled to it. A fan in the corner turns, washing cool air over me as it moves back and forth. The movement of air riffles papers on the counter.
    â€œOffice is now closed.”
    I should have thought of that. Some things close here in the heat of the day. Only shops that cater to tourists are busy now. Everyone else goes in search of shade and a quiet place until later in the afternoon.
    â€œIt’s important. I need to see Mr. Botha. The commissioner?” I stand up tall, trying to look important, imperious, the way Mother would if she wanted something here. This guard won’t ask me questions if I act like my mother.
    He frowns. “Mr. Botha is not here. The commissioner is Mr. Pieter Drak now. Mr. Botha, he is gone. Retired. Sorry.” The guard’s lips turn down, as if he really is sad that he can’t make the commissioner—the old commissioner—appear. “Perhaps Mr. Drak, he can help you. Later?”
    I shake my head. A new commissioner wouldn’t know.
    How could Mr. Botha retire? He has an unsolved case. In the United States, the police don’t give up. They keep cold cases going for years. I hear about them all the time, the unsolved cases closed with the discovery of only a small bit of evidence. Maybe something as small as a chip of blue paint.
    The guard hands me a card. “Here, here is the number. If you change your mind.” I pocket Mr. Drak’s card.
    â€œHow about Dr. Bindas? Do you know him?” If the guard knows Dr. Bindas, then he might know the cousin who works in the government.
    Again, he shakes his head. “No.”
    Disappointed, I find Kammi outside on the stairs in the shade thrown by the building across the street. She’s sitting with her back to me.
    I plop down beside her.
    â€œDid you find out something?” she asks.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWhat were you going to ask? Is it about the letter your mother got?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “It’s about my father.”
    Kammi opens her mouth and then closes it again, as if she’s
thought better of asking a question she might not want to know the answer to. Dad wasn’t part of the reason she came here. After all, Dad is gone. Her father is moving into the picture.
    I squint at the clock tower across the street. “Come on. Jinco will be here soon.”
    Near the cruise-ship dock, we buy cold drinks and sit on a bench underneath a tree. I watch a pair of lizards chase each other along the wall. Sunburned tourists, laden with shopping bags, head back to the ship like lemmings.
    When Jinco shows up, he makes a big show, driving a huge circle around us and doubling back, crossing in front of three small cars, all missing something: a bumper, a radio antenna, a side mirror. Men drinking at the café bar wave noisily, yipping their appreciation. At his driving, or at Kammi. Or maybe both. She and I spill into the back seat. As he