Erica Sinclair - Flight Plan (M/F)

[Caesar73]

That was intense, incredibly intense dear @Jenny_S

Carrie´s fear for Merjem is so vivid.

And then she gets the Target.

That the younger Males are stepping in to defend the "Honour" of the Family? Even killing young Women who violated "Familiy´s Honour. It not seldom. If we look in the News ....

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, although the Nowzads are not professional kidnappers, they seem both desperate and determined enough to find out where Merjem is hiding.
Trouble is: Carrie doesn't know either.
What are they going to do - feed her tea and baklava - or something else?

[LunaDog]

Trouble is: Carrie doesn't know either.

True. But if she doesn't directly know herself, indirectly she does know just who does.

And how will Merjem herself react when she gets to know the lengths that her family are prepared to take here?

[Caesar73]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, although the Nowzads are not professional kidnappers, they seem both desperate and determined enough to find out where Merjem is hiding.
Trouble is: Carrie doesn't know either.
What are they going to do - feed her tea and baklava - or something else?

That they are no Professionals makes the Situation even more dangerous. Merjem´s Family has definitely passed the point of no Return: They are Criminals now, and probably Torturers soon. There is no excuse what so ever for what they are doing. They should be prosecuted to the full extent of the Law.

They are ruining the Life they build up in the USA with a wrecking ball. And for what?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, we will see what the Nowzads do. For the time being, nobody is missing Carrie - yet.

[Jenny_S]

With Merjem safely installed at Ironwood Pastures and Ahmad Nowzad firmly made aware that the law is not on his side, Erica turns her attention back to the business that bears her name in polished letters on the glass doors - Sinclair & Associates.

The morning passes in a blur of case notes, a strategy session that feels more like psychological warfare, and a deposition that leaves opposing counsel visibly rattled.
By noon, Erica is back in her office, a legal pad full of margin notes in front of her - and a far less pressing, but more personal task tugging at the edge of her mind.

She leans back in her chair, pencil resting lightly against her lower lip, and stares at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

The move.

Her apartment on West 72nd Street - sleek, minimal, quiet - has always been her sanctuary. But the house in Scarsdale… the one she grew up in, the one she watched fall quiet after her father’s funeral and her aunt’s decline… that house is whispering to her again.
And not with ghosts - with memory.
With purpose.

The renovation is complete, the paint has dried, the wallpaper hung.
Her father’s study - painstakingly restored from the preserved memory of a little girl watching him sharpen pencils, mark up maps and evening story time - now looks almost exactly as it once did.
The wallpaper, the carpet, the bookshelves, the furniture.

Still, most of her life - her suits, files, favorite mugs, the cats’ toys - is here, in the city.
And none of it is going to pack itself.

She opens her laptop and types in a quick query: “Top-rated moving companies NYC to Westchester.”

Twelve results.
Polished logos.
Promises of discretion, speed, white-glove service.

One name stands out: YOUR BEST MOVE.
Claire mentioned them last week. They have handled her parents’ move.
Efficient.
No-nonsense.
No broken vases.

Erica nods to herself.
Their phone number flashes in bold across the screen: 1-800-BESTMOVE.
She picks up her office phone and taps the digits.

Two rings.
Then:
“YOUR BEST MOVE, this is Laura, how can I help you today?”
The voice is young, cheerful - like cotton candy spun through earbuds.

“This is Erica Sinclair,” she says, crisp. “I need to arrange a move from West 72nd Street to Scarsdale.”

“Absolutely, Ms. Sinclair,” Laura replies without missing a beat. “We’d typically send one of our team out first to do a walk-through - assess volume, logistics, and so on. That visit’s completely free, of course. What time would work for you?”

Erica hesitates only for a breath. Her schedule requires a little work to rearrange - but this matters.
“As soon as possible,” she says. “Today, if you can.”

“Let me check,” Laura says brightly, her keyboard clicking in the background. “We’ve got an opening between four and six. Would that be alright?”

Erica’s gaze flicks toward her calendar. Court prep can wait. Her house is calling.
“I’ll make time.”

“Wonderful. 4 p.m. it is, then.”

“Thank you.”

She ends the call and sets the receiver back into its cradle with a soft click.

Letting strangers into her apartment doesn’t sit well with her.
It never has.
Her privacy is more fortress than preference - walls she built around herself after loss and betrayal.
But she let the contractors into her childhood home, so she figures she can let movers into the life she’s built since the debacle of her last relationship had ended.

She exhales once, then pulls her case notes back toward her.

One problem solved.
A dozen more still waiting.

But for the first time in weeks, the thought of home - not the place she escapes to, but the one she’s reclaiming - doesn’t feel like retreat.

It feels like motion.

She’s coming home.


###


At exactly 4:00 p.m., the doorbell chimes through Erica Sinclair’s apartment.

Spot and Tiger lift their heads from the sunny patch near the windowsill.
Ears flick.
Tails curl.
Strangers are rare in this space - at any time of the day.

The kittens slip off their perch and pad silently to the edge of the living room rug, watching intently as their human walks toward the front door.

Erica unlocks the deadbolt, the solid metallic click echoing slightly in the polished silence.
She opens the door.

On the threshold stands a young woman in a crisp navy polo with YOUR BEST MOVE embroidered above the breast pocket.
Her ponytail bobs slightly as she offers a professional smile and extends her hand.
“Ms. Sinclair? Laura Delbert. Thanks for making the time.”

Erica returns the handshake - firm, brief. “Come in, please.”

Laura steps inside, clipboard in hand, her eyes sweeping across the apartment’s clean lines, the muted tones, taking in the scent of lavender, wood, and leather.
She doesn’t try to hide the impression it leaves. “What a beautiful place.”

Spot and Tiger retreat halfway up the hallway to the kitchen, perching like twin gargoyles, their green eyes following the guest with suspicion and feline entitlement.

“I’ll walk you through,” Erica says simply.

Laura follows, jotting quick notes on her checklist as they move from room to room.
The entry hall.
The sleek kitchen.
The sparsely filled shelves.
The bedroom, restrained but not cold - soft light filtering through linen curtains, the bed tightly made.

“This is the couch that will need disassembling,” Erica says, gesturing toward the living room. “Same for the bed.”

Laura makes a note. “My team will bring all the tools and materials. They bubble-wrap everything. You don’t need to lift a finger.”
She does a few quick calculations, numbers whispering from her lips as she scribbles in her notebook.

Finally, she looks up.
“All told,” she says, tone light but confident, “we can have your entire apartment packed, moved, and reassembled within the same day. Including full disassembly and reassembly of any furniture, boxes for your personal items, and basic insurance - we’re looking at twelve hundred flat. You just need someone to let us in here, and then again at the Scarsdale address.”

Erica crosses her arms, gaze cool but thoughtful.
“And when can you do it?”

Laura smiles. “Soonest availability is the day after tomorrow. We’ll arrive at 9:00 in the morning and you’d be able to sleep in your own bed in Scarsdale in the evening.”

Erica nods once. “Deal.”

Laura flips to the final page of her clipboard, fills out the service contract, and turns the pad around. “Card details here, please… signature on the next line.”

Erica skims the fine print with trained eyes, checks the box for additional insurance, and signs with deliberate precision.

“Thank you for choosing YOUR BEST MOVE,” Laura says, tucking the contract neatly into a folder. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Spot sneezes delicately behind her as if to offer editorial comment.
“I hope not,” Erica replies, tone wry.

Laura steps back toward the door. “You receive a confirmation email this evening and a follow-up call tomorrow afternoon.”

Erica opens the door again and nods as Laura steps out.
Then the door closes with its familiar, final click.

Spot and Tiger emerge from the hallway, padding back into the living room.
Erica crouches, running her fingers through their soft fur.
“You’re going to love Scarsdale,” she murmurs, more to herself than them.

Erica exhales - long and slow.
Not exhaustion.
Not tension.
Something else.
Relief.
It’s really going to happen.
The move.

She’s coming home.

The word still feels foreign, but not uninvited.
Like something once lost that has finally started to circle back.

She stands in the middle of her apartment - this haven of sharp lines, clean scents, and intentional solitude - and lets her eyes travel over it.

Everything here has a place.
Every shadow has been lived with.
Every silence earned.

But there are things here that won’t go on the moving truck.
Things the movers can’t handle.
Things they shouldn’t even see.

She walks quietly toward the bedroom.

Under the bed: the plastic bin, sealed and nondescript, but inside - cotton rope, cold metal handcuffs and silk.
The tools of a private ritual she hasn’t felt the need to perform in a long while, but nonetheless a quiet release no one knows about.

It doesn’t shame her, but it’s not for display.
It never has been.

Next to the bin: the shoebox of family heirlooms. Photos - sepia-toned, curled at the edges. Ancestors back to the Civil War.
Her father’s green beret, his medals carefully wrapped in tissue.
The wedding rings that once belonged to Owen and Luisa Sinclair.
Pieces of blood and memory.

She opens the walk-in closet and lifts down a folder from the top shelf - her personal documents.
Birth certificate.
Social Security card.
Passport.
Letters she never rereads.
She tucks it aside carefully.

From the cabinet in the living room, she retrieves the silver picture frame holding the photo showing her, as a toddler, between her parents.
She smiles as she looks at her mother’s soft, oval face and her father’s square-jawed calm, brushing a thumb gently across the glass.

Finally, she turns toward the couch where Spot and Tiger sprawl in warm disinterest on the armrest.
The food bowls on their little feeding mat are half-full, their world still undisturbed by tape and boxes.

She crouches beside them, the fine wool of her blazer creasing softly as she does.
Both cats look up, curious, their ears swiveling.
Scratching the tabbies between their ears, she leans in and whispers, voice low and warm.
“You’re going to go on a huge adventure, my lovelies.”
Spot purrs, leaning into her palm.
“We’re going home.”
Her voice catches, but only slightly.

Then - her phone buzzes.
A long vibration.
Insistent.
Not casual.

Erica rises slowly, her spine straightening.

Normalcy never lingers long.

Her phone buzzes again, screen glowing.

Holly Beck.

~~~

[LunaDog]

When one says that Erica is moving to a new home, i suppose that's not really accurate. It's more of a case that she's moving back to an old one, her childhood home. With all its memories. However, it will be all new to Tiger and Spot of course.

Looks like this scene of serenity is about to be rather shattered though. Is the sh*t about to hit the fan?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, exactly.
Erica is going home. She knows that despite the glamour of the city, in her heart, she never stopped being a small town girl.

And as for the brown mass hitting the fan... why would Carrie's older sister call after hours?
We're picking up speed.

[LunaDog]

Why would Carrie's older sister call after hours?

QUITE!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, then let's see what Holly has to say...

[Jenny_S]

Erica picks it up without hesitation, her thumb sliding to accept the call.
“Holly,” she says, voice level - calm, composed, but already bracing.
Their receptionist calling her after hours?
That cannot mean good news.

There’s a breathless pause, then:
“Ms. Sinclair…” Holly’s voice trembles around the edges, stretched thin and high with panic. “My parents… they had a visit from the police.”

“Go on.”

“It’s about Carrie… my sister…”

Erica forces herself to stay grounded, one hand braced on the marble counter, breath measured. “What about her?”

Holly swallows audibly on the line.
“Someone from her college saw her get dragged off the sidewalk. Tossed into a grey sedan. He called the police and they… Ms. Sinclair…” Her voice cracks. “They think she might have been abducted. She doesn’t answer her phone.”

Erica closes her eyes, jaw tightens.
Her breath draws in, slow and deep, filling her chest with cold air and calculated focus.
“Holly, calm down. Where are you?”

“At my parents’ place. I… I came home as soon as I heard.”
She rattles off the address - a nondescript brownstone in Queens.
Her voice is shaking now. “Please, Ms. Sinclair, they won’t tell us anything. I don’t know what to do.”

“Text me your address,” Erica says firmly. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
She ends the call, and the silence that follows is heavy with shift.
Deafening even.

Whatever today was meant to be - it isn’t anymore.

She turns toward the living room.
Spot is perched on the back of the couch, tail flicking once in quiet interest.
Tiger sits below, ears twitching, already aware that something’s changed in the apartment.

Erica crouches, running her fingers behind their ears - familiar spots, soft and warm.
“You two be good, okay?” she murmurs. “Mommy just needs to step out for a little while.”

She rises, crossing the room with the speed of someone shifting from bystander to participant.
The trench coat slides over her shoulders. Her bag straps into place like armor.

The click of the front door lock echoes behind her.
She doesn’t know where Carrie is.
But she knows one thing for certain - this isn’t random.
Carrie wasn’t just snatched off the curb.

This is a message.
And whoever sent it just made a very serious mistake.

~~~

[LunaDog]

And whoever sent it just made a very serious mistake.

I've absolutely NO doubt about that. In her, totally astute, mind Erica has already worked out just who is behind this.

[Caesar73]

Wonderful Picture!

And I agree with these Lines:

This is a message.
And whoever sent it just made a very serious mistake.

I have the feeling Merjem´s Brother is about to find out ... just guessing here dear @Jenny_S

[Caesar73]

And in an afterthought: Whoever thinks about sending a Woman back to Afghanistan? This Guy has a serious Problem. Arranging a Marriage is one thing. Arranging a Marriage in 2026 to Afghanistian an entirely different Matter. I am sorry, but there are no mitigating Circumstances for Merjems Family what so ever. The Thought alone is preposterous.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, in my line of work I have seen a lot of "traditional" customs that seems impossible for us. Theystill marry minors as young as 14 and forced marriage is definitely a thing in certain cultures.
I'm staying away from using minors as active characters in my stories, though, so Merjem is 19, a young adult.

[Jenny_S]

The Becks’ house sits at the end of a quiet street in Queens - red brick, white trim, low hedges lining the path to the porch.
King of Queens architecture: modest, neat, lived-in.
The porch light glows like a beacon, the curtains are drawn.

A storm without rain presses down on the whole block.

Erica pulls her black Volvo to the curb, cuts the engine, and slides out.
She shuts the door with the kind of finality that makes people pause mid-sentence.

By the time she climbs the three steps to the front door, it opens.
Holly stands there, pale, eyes rimmed red.
She looks younger than usual - stripped of her usual glamour and polish, dressed in a hoodie and jeans.
She pulls the door wider.
“Ms. Sinclair…” she says, stepping aside.
Erica gives a single nod.

Inside, the house smells of fresh coffee and tension.
The living room is tidy but anxious - coasters arranged perfectly on the table, the TV on but muted.

Mr. and Mrs. Beck rise from the couch as Erica enters.
Holly’s father looks like he hasn’t sat still in hours - tall, broad-shouldered, in a blue sweat top, hands working against each other nervously.
Her mother, slighter, wears a floral dress, her face tight with worry but grateful.

“You must be Ms. Sinclair,” Mr. Beck says, voice uncertain. “We… we appreciate you coming all the way out here.”

Erica steps forward, extending her hand. “Erica Sinclair. And I’d have come farther.”
They shake.
Brief.
Firm.

Mrs. Beck clasps her hands together, voice wavering. “We didn’t know who else to call. The officers just asked a few questions and left. Holly says you would know what to do.”

Erica nods once. “Please tell me everything you know so far.”

Mr. Beck gestures toward the couch. “Please, have a seat.”
Erica does - upright, composed, not resting - while Holly sits at the edge of the recliner, knees bouncing.
Her parents settle too, but no one relaxes.

Mr. Beck clears his throat. “A kid from Carrie’s dorm… called the cops telling them he saw her arguing with some guy near campus around five. Then saw her being grabbed. They shoved her into a car. He tried to stop it, but it happened so fast.”

“A grey sedan,” Holly adds, her voice low. “He was able to give the police part of the plate number - but they said the car or the plates might have been stolen.”

Erica leans forward slightly. “Did the police say if they could track the vehicle?”

“No,” Mrs. Beck answers quickly. “Only that they put out a bulletin and looped in the State Police - whatever that means. But they don’t know if she’s still in the city, or…” Her voice chokes off.

Erica doesn’t blink. “They’re following protocol,” she says, but avoids pointing out how painfully slow the official channels can be. “I’ll see if we can get this sped up somewhat.”

Holly bites her lip. “Do you think it’s them? Merjem’s family? What we know about the kidnapper would match…”

Erica meets her eyes.
Calm.
Controlled. “We don’t know for sure, but I don’t believe in coincidences. Maybe we can find out if they are behind this or not.”

Mr. Beck straightens. “Then we’re dealing with what? Human traffickers?”

“No,” Erica says coolly. “We’re probably dealing with people who’ve lost control and want to reassert it. Carrie is friends with a girl of Afghan roots – Merjem Nowzad. Her parents have arranged a marriage for her that she didn’t agree with and went into hiding. If this is the Nowzads - and they might very well be - this isn’t about ransom. It’s about leverage. Pressure. Revenge.”

“Then Carrie is in danger.” Mrs. Beck presses a hand to her chest.

Erica turns to her.
“If they want to bargain, there’s no need to hurt her.”

The room goes still for a moment.
Mr. Beck surges to his feet, anger flaring into something raw and ugly, but Erica cuts in, raises her hand, trying to calm the man down.
She understands that he loves his daughters and would do anything to protect them – and to get Carrie back.
The last thing they need now, though, is a father pulling a Lone Ranger stunt.
“No, Mr. Beck,” Erica says, pulling out her phone. “Your family needs you here. I’ll take care of this.”

She scrolls down in her list of contacts till she finds the name she’s looking for: Sophie van Rey.
Then she presses the call button, lifts the phone to her ear.
One ring. Then another.
“Yes,” Sophie answers - brisk and unmistakably alert, as though she’s already expecting the call.

“It’s Erica Sinclair,” she says. “Listen, my receptionist’s younger sister may have been abducted this evening.”

A beat of silence.
Not shock, but calibration.

“Tell me what you know,” Sophie says. Her voice is taut, clipped - already shifting into operational mode.
Erica lays it out with precision.
No drama, just facts.
The call from Holly.
The panicked voices of her parents.
The statement from a student witness - that Carrie Beck, age nineteen, got pulled into a grey sedan outside her dorm.
The possible involvement of Muhammad Nowzad, Merjem’s older brother.

She doesn’t waste time theorizing - she focuses on the facts: the witness and his call to NYPD. The timing. The vehicle. The jurisdiction.

Mr. Beck hands her a card - standard NYPD issue. She runs a thumb over the printed text as she speaks.
“The officer who came to talk to the Becks is Michael Ludgate, out of the 107th Precinct. The case hasn’t been passed up to detectives yet.”

“Ludgate,” Sophie repeats, her voice growing quieter. “107.”

Erica hears the soft rustle of paper, the clack of a keyboard.
Sophie is already moving. “I’ll have someone pull all local traffic and surveillance footage from the area,” Sophie says. “Let’s see if we can get eyes on that car. I’ll call the precinct captain directly and make sure this gets prioritized. I'll call you back as soon as I have a hit.”

“Thank you, Sophie.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Sophie replies, the line going dead.
The Deputy Commisioner of Public Safety knows very well that success is anything but guaranteed.

Erica lowers the phone, a knot tightening in her stomach.
Sophie will get things moving.
Of that, there’s no doubt.
The official channels will open, the wheels of law enforcement will probably start turning a little faster now, but still meticulously and by the book.

And a girl is missing.

She opens her contacts again, scrolling past the legal names.
Past the judges, the prosecutors, past all the people who play by the rules.
Until she finds his name.
John Dance.

Ex-CIA operative.
Now a freelance security consultant.
A man who knows how to move in the shadows, a ghost in a city full of them.
A man who knows how to get results.
Expert at finding people who don’t want to be found.

She thinks of Merjem, a girl she barely knows, and Carrie, a girl she’s only met once.
The law will take time.
She doesn’t have time.
She needs to bypass the rules and get to the answer directly.

Her thumb hovers over the name on the screen.
Then she taps.


~~~

[LunaDog]

John Dance.
A man who knows how to get results.

As he has done on previous occasions if i remember correctly. Not the least of those was when the 'creaking bureaucracy' was trying to destroy the reputation of her father.

And on a slightly frivolous note, have you truly 'made my day' here? Is that sheer nylon that appears to be on Erica's legs within that utterly superb accompanying drawing above? Because it sure looks like it!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you have the eyes of a hawk. I try to please. Sometimes the AI does what I tell her to do.

[LunaDog]

Sometimes the AI does what I tell her to do.

In that case, perhaps you can instruct the A.I. to remove the skirt! So i can REALLY see the suspenders and clasps as well as the stockings.

On second thoughts maybe not, as my 'old ticker' might prove to be unable to cope with the extreme excitement that would result!

[Caesar73]

John Dance.
A man who knows how to get results.

And on a slightly frivolous note, have you truly 'made my day' here? Is that sheer nylon that appears to be on Erica's legs within that utterly superb accompanying drawing above? Because it sure looks like it!

Indeed a nice touch

I am very curious how the Story will develop further!

John Dance is the right man for the Job at Hand.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73 there will be a bit of suspense after tomorrow's episode since I'll be away for the weekend and I'm not sure if there's going to be WiFi and cell reception.
Please stay tuned.

[Jenny_S]

The phone rings once.
Twice.
Then a voice, low and gravel-edged, answers:
“You’re not calling to catch up, are you?”

“No,” Erica says. “I’m not.”

He’s silent, but she can almost hear him shifting in his chair - already alert, calculating.
“What’s happening?”

She doesn’t waste a syllable.
“I’ve got a situation: nineteen-year-old girl. Born here, Afghan parents. They arranged for her to marry a man in Kabul. I got her into a safe place - but her father and older brother didn’t take it well.”

“What a surprise,” Dance mutters.

“This evening,” Erica continues, “my receptionist called me. Her sister, Carrie - college classmate of Merjem’s - was pulled off the street and shoved into a car. A witness says the driver might’ve been the older brother. NYPD’s looking into it, but it hasn’t even reached detectives yet.”

A beat.

“Okay, got it.”

“I think it could be a direct response,” Erica says, flat and certain. “A play for leverage. Either the father, Ahmad Nowzad, or the son, Muhammad - maybe both. They want Merjem back. And they’re hoping to use Carrie as a bargaining chip.”

“Smart,” Dance growls. “Cruel. But smart.”

Erica’s voice hardens. “I’ve got Sophie van Rey working the official angles, but I want to move outside the lines too. Can you meet me in Queens? I’m at the Becks’ house now. And when I talk to the Nowzads… I might need muscle.”

There’s no hesitation.
“Text me the location. I’m on my way.”

She ends the call and taps out the address, thumb quick and steady.
Then, for a moment, she just sits there - the phone resting in her lap, its weight familiar and cold against her skin.

Outside, somewhere beyond the quiet porches and drawn curtains of this Queens street, a girl is missing.

But she’ll do everything possible to change that.


~~~


Twenty-seven minutes later, a dark grey sedan rolls up to the curb behind Erica’s Volvo. The driver steps out - tall, broad-shouldered, moving with quiet confidence.
He looks like a man you've passed a thousand times and never remembered.
John Dance closes his door softly, his gaze scanning the street before he walks up the path to the porch.

Erica steps out to meet him before he knocks.
“Thanks for coming, John. We have to move fast.”

"You call, I haul," he says, his voice a low rumble.
Dance doesn’t ask for justification.
Doesn’t push for orders.
He just nods once, the kind of nod that’s followed by results.
“If you’ve got an address for them, we’ll start there.”

~~~

[LunaDog]

Definitely the RIGHT man for the job!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, absolutely. John Dance not only brings muscles, but also brains.

[Jenny_S]

The drive to Yonkers is quiet but charged, the Volvo’s hum barely covering the sound of Erica’s grinding thoughts.
Beside her, John Dance rides with the easy stillness of a man who’s learned to let silence do its work.

The address leads them to a squat brick apartment block wedged between a halal market and a shuttered laundromat.
The air smells faintly of fried dough and car exhaust. Children kick a scuffed soccer ball against a wall, their shouts in Dari or Pashto echoing between buildings.
This clearly is an Afghan neighborhood.
Like in any long-established immigrant community, people still tend to band together.

Erica checks the note pad in her hand. “This is it,” she says.
The car’s GPS shows the same address Merjem had given her, so it should be correct.
She clears her throat knowing fully well that in a neighborhood like this, things can go South in a major way very quickly when tempers flare.

Inside, the hallway is dim and smells faintly of boiled cabbage and exotic spices.

They climb two flights and stop at a door with peeling green paint. Dance knocks - once, twice.

The door opens a cautious hand’s width.
A woman in her forties peers out, the sharp planes of her face framed by a neatly tied headscarf.
Her eyes flick from Erica to Dance, wary and guarded, one hand instinctively tugging her headscarf tighter.
She glances once over her shoulder into the apartment, as if checking who else might be listening.

It is the look of a woman regarding everybody not part of her immediate family and cultural neighborhood as potentially hostile.

“We’re looking for Ahmad and Muhammad Nowzad,” Erica says. “It’s important.”

Farida – the name Merjem had told her - shakes her head almost before Erica finishes. “They’re not here.”

“We just need to talk to them,” Erica presses, keeping her tone polite but firm. “It’s about Merjem’s friend, Carrie. She’s missing. We think your husband and son may know something.”

Farida’s fingers tighten on the door edge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She starts to swing the door shut.

"Ma’am," John says evenly, planting his booted foot across the threshold. "People who don't know anything don't shut the door so quickly."

Her eyes flash, part anger, part suspicion, part fear.
For a beat, no one speaks.
The sound of the children outside filters faintly through the building.

John leans in, his voice dropping to a low, hard growl. "Where are they? Help us or the next knock on this door will be from Immigration. They'll ask a lot more questions than we will."

Erica softens her voice, stepping forward. "Mrs. Nowzad, we're not with the police. We're just trying to find a girl. Another mother's daughter. Please. If you know where your husband is, tell us."

Farida’s gaze flicks between them, weighing options. She exhales through her nose, a small, defeated sound.
“Ahmad has a shop,” she says finally. “Working on cars. In the Bronx. Muhammad is sometimes there, helping. That’s all I can say.”

Dance’s eyes meet Erica’s for a fraction of a second. He has spent years in his trade reading people’s faces and this looks like they’ve got a lead.
“What’s the address?” Dance asks.

She hesitates, her gaze dropping to the scuffed floorboards as though the answer might be hiding there.

Her lips press into a thin line.

She is a mother measuring whether protecting her own will cost another woman’s daughter too much.
Then, quietly, she gives the address.

Erica memorizes it before Farida can change her mind.

The woman’s hand tightens on the door one last time. “Please,” she says quietly, “don’t bring trouble to my family.”

“No trouble,” Erica replies.

Farida shuts the door, this time without resistance.
The dim light behind her vanishes and the lock clicks once, twice, leaving only the muffled sound of children’s shouts echoing down the hall.

~~~