Who is Maud Dixon?(72)

When she sat up, her hair in disarray, Amira was setting a cup and saucer gently on the table in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said, as if all were normal, as if this woman were not witnessing the disintegration of her self.

“Je vous en prie.”

Florence sipped the strong, hot coffee and felt her wits begin to sharpen.

The first step was getting out of Morocco. If she had to explain what had happened to Helen, it would be better to do that in America. After all, extradition treaties go both ways. Morocco couldn’t compel the United States to send her back to stand trial for manslaughter.

She Googled how to replace a lost passport in a foreign country. It appeared that she would need to go either to the embassy in Rabat or to the consulate in Casablanca. She’d also need a new passport photo, a photocopy of her old passport, and her driver’s license.

Well, fantastic. She didn’t have any of those. She noticed she was gnawing on her knuckle again. She removed it from her mouth, and picked up Dan Massey’s card from where it still sat on the table. She tapped it against the glass a few times.

Finally she stood up.

It was time to embark on the long, unpleasant process of becoming Florence Darrow again.

She went into the kitchen and dialed the number.

“Massey here.”

“Hi, Mr. Massey. This is Florence Darrow.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“The woman from yesterday?” she prodded. “You were at my house?”

“I certainly remember visiting Helen Wilcox’s house. What can I do for you, Ms. Wilcox?”

“It’s Ms. Darrow,” Florence said emphatically. “I want to go back to the United States. But I don’t have a passport. Or any photo ID.”

“I have your passport.”

“No, you have Helen Wilcox’s passport.”

Another silence. When he spoke again, it was in a tone eager to show off how very reasonable he was being. “Alright, we’ll do this your way. Remind me of your name again.”

“Florence. Florence Margaret Darrow. I was born in Daytona Beach, Florida, on October ninth, 1993.”

“And you have nothing with your name on it? Nothing at all?”

“No. But I can give you my mother’s phone number—she’ll tell you. Or wait, actually, there’s someone here in Semat right now—an old friend, she’s known me since I was six—she can tell you who I am.”

“Uh-huh. But you see how I can’t issue a legal government document using the assurance from a friend as proof of identity, right? You understand that?”

“I know, but…”

“Do you have access to your birth certificate or your social security card?”

“No.” Both of them were in a shoebox in her closet in Helen’s house. “But I can tell you where to find them.”

He sighed. “Alright. Listen. I’m going to talk to a few people in the office and see what our options are. Maybe your friend could sign an affidavit. I’m not sure. To be honest, I’ve never encountered a situation quite like this before. What’s the best number to reach you at?”

Florence rattled off the phone number from the yellowed piece of paper taped to the wall next to the phone.

“Okay, sit tight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“When?”

“Hopefully later today. Goodbye, Ms.—” he stopped himself. “Goodbye.”

Florence hung up and immediately retrieved the laptop from the living room. She had no plans to sit tight.

She Googled the number for Riad Lotus—that was where Amy had said she and Whitney were staying—and asked to speak to Whitney Carlson. It was nine thirty in the morning; she hoped they were still in the room. She hoped they were still in Semat.

“Hello?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Whitney? It’s Florence.”

“Florence, I’m so glad you called! I feel absolutely horrible about the other night. I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s fine—don’t worry about it. Listen, we didn’t really get a chance to catch up, so I was wondering how long you were staying in Semat.”

“Just until tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we’re taking the bus to Marrakesh in the morning then flying back to the States around eight.”

“Okay. Listen, I’m going to call you in a little bit, okay? I might need your help with something.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Great, thanks, Whitney.”

“Is everything okay, Florence?”

“It’s fine. Or at least it will be fine.” She paused. “I’m really glad I ran into you.” She considered how unlikely she’d have been to say that just forty-eight hours earlier.

“Me too.”

“One more thing—I’m sorry I never responded to any of your calls or emails after I moved to New York. I should have, and I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. People drift apart. I understand.”

They hung up, but Florence stayed by the phone and leaned her head against the wall. She was dreading her next call. Finally, she picked up the handset and dialed the only number she knew by heart.