“The young man at the station was not your cousin. He told us as much himself. The question is whether you will tell more lies today.”
Personally, I advise you against it.” “We were going to stay with my uncle,Laila said. “That's the truth.”
The policeman nodded. “The hamshira in the corridor, she's your mother?” “Yes.” “She has a Herati accent. You don't.”
She was raised in Herat, I was born here in Kabul.“Of course. And you are widowed? You said you were. My condolences.”
“And this uncle, this kaka, where does he live?” “In Peshawar.” “Yes, you said that.”
He licked the point of his pencil and poised it over a blank sheet of paper.
“But where in Peshawar? Which neighborhood, please? Street name?”
Laila tried to push back the bubble of panic that was coming up her chest.
She gave him the name of the only street she knew in Peshawar—she'd heard it mentioned once, at the party Mammy had thrown: “Jamrud Road.”
“Oh, yes. Same street as the Pearl Continental Hotel. He might have mentioned it.” Laila seized this opportunity and said he had.
“That very same street, yes.” “Except the hotel is on Khyber Road.” Laila could hear Aziza crying in the corridor.
“My daughter's frightened. May I get her, brother?” “I prefer 'Officer.' And you'll be with her shortly. Do you have a telephone number?”
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