Free A Wild and Lonely Place by Marcia Muller

enough to remember something about him.”
    She pursed her lips, as though she was making a difficult decision. “Okay, I lied. I remember him; I saw him just last month.
     Grams says I can’t tell anybody about his visits because if my mother found out she’d put a stop to them.”
    Was the child making this up? Hamid had supposedly vanished years ago. “How often does he come?”
    “Two or three times a year. He always brings presents.”
    “Where does he live?”
    “I don’t know. He says he travels a lot.”
    “Well, what kinds of presents does he bring you?”
    “The last time it was this wooden bracelet with parrots carved on it.” She pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and held
     out her arm. The bracelet was white, girded with brightly painted birds, and looked like a cheap tourist souvenir. Hamid—if
     Habiba’s story was true—must have been traveling in the Tropics.
    I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering if the gift-bearing father wasn’t only a wishful fantasy created by a
     lonely little girl. Two of my nephews had suffered through their parents’ bitter divorce, and my youngest sister’s three kids
     had never even known their respective fathers. From observing them I knew how yearning for an absent parent could create a
     rich imaginary life.
    “Please take me for a ride,” Habiba said again.
    “All right, but only a short one.” I started the MG and edged out of the parking space. Drove down the block and made the
     first in a series of right turns that would eventually take us to RKI’s mobile unit.
    “Tell me more about your father’s visits,” I said.
    “Well, he only stays for a few hours. Beforehand Grams sends everybody away except Aisha—that’s my nanny who she trusts ’cause
     she’s been with us forever. First my father and Grams talk in the library. Then they come out and Aisha serves us lunch.”
     Frown lines appeared between her eyebrows. “He really doesn’t know what to say to me. He asks all these questions about school
     and my lessons and what I’ve been doing, but I can tell he’s not listening to my answers because he’s too busy trying to think
     up the next question. Sometimes Uncle Klaus comes with him; then it’s better.”
    Kahlil Lateef had said Dawud was an only child. “Is Uncle Klaus your mother’s brother?”
    “No, he’s not really an uncle, that’s just what Grams told me to call him. He’s my dad’s business partner.”
    “What kind of business are they in?”
    “Well, it’s got to do with managing money and they both travel. Dad said he’d explain it to me when I’m older. You see what
     I mean about him not knowing how to talk to me? He acts like I’m about three!”
    In some respects Habiba did seem younger than nine; she’d led a very sheltered life within the confines of the consulate.
     On the other hand, she’d demonstrated a fairly adult insight about both her parents. “Klaus,” I said, “that’s a German name.”
    “Yes, he told me once that he was born there, but he left when he was a teenager.”
    “Your grandmother—”
    Habiba leaned forward suddenly, peering through the windshield. “Oh, no, it’s Mr. Renshaw!”
    We’d rounded the last corner and were approaching the mobile unit. Gage stood behind it, scowling and motioning for me to
     pull over.
    “He’ll tell Grams I snuck out!” Habiba’s hand clutched at my arm.
    “I don’t think so.” I stopped the car. Renshaw leaned down, saw Habiba, and scowled.
    I reached across her and rolled down the window. “Hi, Gage. Habiba needed to get out for a while, so I suggested we go for
     a drive. I told her you wouldn’t mind.”
    Renshaw covered his annoyance quickly. “Well, her nanny’s upset, so I guess we’d better get her back home.” He opened the
     car door and bowed from the waist. “May I escort you back to your castle, my lady?”
    I stared; in all my dealings with him, Renshaw had never exhibited so much as a shred of