Girl, 11 Amy Clarke (e reader comics .TXT) 📖

“Then you think she was killed.” The words were metallic in Elle’s mouth. So final, so likely.

Ayaan paused, bringing her thumb up to her mouth and running the nail back and forth across her bottom lip. It was a nervous tic of hers, something she did when she was thinking hard. It occurred to Elle how carefully she studied Ayaan, how much she wanted to understand her. The commander was so good at keeping people out—Elle wanted to be a person Ayaan opened up to, someone she let in.

Finally, Ayaan said, “At this point, I’m afraid so. I have never worked a kidnapping case where the child turned up alive three days after being taken unless the kidnapper traded them for money or leniency.”

Silence fell between them, bleak as a January night.

“How do you do it?” Elle asked after a moment. “I still lose sleep over some of the cases we worked together when I was in CPS, and I quit almost six years ago. Now I get to choose what I investigate, stay away from the ones that are too disturbing. How do you not lose your mind, seeing the horrible things people do to children every day?”

Ayaan leaned back in her chair, folded her arms over her chest. “My parents didn’t want me to become a police officer. They had hoped I would study medicine, like my brother. But I saw the way the world pressured and even forced some women to bear children, only to let them flounder once they were born. I wanted to protect them from that. I am keenly aware of who the system leaves behind. In this country, police have rarely served people who look like me. That’s why I’m here—I work for them.”

“What do your parents think of you being a detective now?” Elle asked.

“They are supportive, more so now that I’m a commander and not in as much danger as I was when I was on patrol.” Ayaan’s smile was soft. “They came here to get away from the civil war in Somalia when my mother was pregnant with me. All they ever wanted was to give me a better life, more opportunity than I would have had in their home country. A lot of Somali immigrants came to Minnesota over the years, before the ban.”

There was so much injustice summarized in those three words. Elle wondered if Ayaan had family in Somalia still, people who wanted to come to America that were being shut out because of hate and fear. She kept her eyes on the commander, but she stayed silent. There was nothing she could say.

Ayaan met her gaze. “What about you? I know you love your work now, but do you ever think about becoming a detective someday?”

“I don’t want to be a cop.”

The words were tinged with negativity. She opened her mouth to say more, but then Ayaan’s phone rang. She answered and exchanged a few quick words, then pressed a button on the handset.

“Camilla, I’ve just put you on speakerphone so another investigator can hear. Can you please say that again?”

A woman with a French accent spoke. “Yes, my daughter Danika said she spoke to you yesterday in school, about the missing girl. She said when you asked if any of the kids had seen the person who took Amanda, she didn’t say anything, but this morning she told me she had seen the man. Can I put her on the phone?”

“Yes, of course.” Ayaan rubbed her forehead, scratching underneath her hijab before adjusting it back over her hairline. Elle could see her fingers were trembling.

“Hi,” a little girl’s voice said over the phone. “I’m sorry I lied.”

“I don’t think you lied, Danika,” Ayaan said. “I remember you. You were trying to tell me something and got interrupted by that other girl, right? Did that make you feel like what you had to say wasn’t important?”

“Yes.” She sounded like she might have been crying. “I told Maman it wasn’t my fault.” Camilla’s voice murmured in the background, and then Danika spoke again. “I should have told you that Brooklyn was wrong. But I was scared. Sometimes she can be really mean to me.”

“What was she wrong about, Danika?”

“The man who came up to talk to Amanda . . . He wasn’t tall, and he didn’t have black hair. I don’t know if Brooklyn even saw him. She just wanted attention.”

Elle grabbed a pen from Ayaan’s desk and started writing under the printed screenshot. Ayaan nodded at her and kept talking. “Okay, sweetheart. It’s so good of you to call and tell me that. Do you remember what the man looked like?”

There was another murmur between Danika and her mother, and then Danika’s voice came back on. “He was the same size as my papa. Maman said to tell you he’s five feet”—another whisper—“and ten inches. And he didn’t have any hair.”

“So, no black hair?” Ayaan clarified.

“No, and he wasn’t wearing a hat, just a scarf and these big work boots. I didn’t see a lot of his face. He had a shiny white head and red cheeks, and he was wearing the big black sunglasses like my dad has. I saw Amanda at the bottom of her driveway when I was walking to the bus. The man ran up to her and said, ‘You have to come with me. I work with your dad and he’s been in an accident.’ And she just went off with him.”

Ayaan met Elle’s gaze as she asked, “Did you see where the man came from? Did he get out of a car?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really see him until he said Amanda’s name.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so. I kind of hid behind a tree when I saw him. He didn’t look nice.”

“And did you watch Amanda go anywhere with him? Did you see her get in a car?”

“He grabbed her hand and started running toward this blue van. But I