Page 78 of Clever Little Thing

“That man is taking my child!” I struggle to wrench myself free.

“What does she look like?” says the woman. Her mouth turns down at the corners, like a disappointed head teacher. She doesn’t believe I really have a daughter.

But the man is listening to his radio. He nods at the woman, and they escort me to the other side of the screening area. Pete’s standing there with another police officer while a woman with a Fair Isle cardigan and a security lanyard attempts to distract Stella with a bear in a Santa hat. “Stella!” I shout, but she won’t look at me: she asked me to do one thing, and I failed. The police officer is talking to Pete. No sign of Kia: he left her behind. Even she wouldn’t condone him taking Stella out of the country without telling me. He blinks as people point their phones at him, whispering to each other: he must have done something bad if the police are detaining him. His arms are rigid by his side. I stare at him. I’ve never seen him like this, without a plan.

Then the police officers are rushing us down one fluorescent-lit corridor after another, until we reach a windowless room with two sofas, a coffee table, and several chairs. It’s the room of last resort,where the news is so bad that it’s pointless to provide a potted plant or a magazine. The police officers introduce themselves as Constables Lynne Rolfe and Ajay Grover. The woman with the lanyard is Mandy.

“I want a lawyer,” Pete says.

“You’re not under arrest,” says Rolfe. “Currently. Let’s try to get to the bottom of this situation.” She gestures at us to sit down. Stella won’t. Mandy wants to take her to another room, murmuring about juice and crayons.

“Please keep my daughter where I can see her,” I bark, and Mandy subsides. Grover checks our passports, studying our faces, frowning.

“What’s your daughter’s name?” asks Rolfe.

“Stella,” Pete says.

Rolfe raises her eyebrows. “That wasn’t the name she answered to earlier.”

Mandy crouches down and asks Stella in a soft voice, “What’s your name, sweetie?”

Stella stares straight ahead.

“Is she hearing-impaired?” says Mandy.

Pete sighs. “For Christ’s sake, you have her passport. You don’t need her to say her name.”

Rolfe glances at Grover, and he shrugs and shows her Stella’s passport photo, taken two years ago, when her skin was still pale and her curls unruly. I loved that picture—her high forehead, her precise, delicate features—like a face you’d find inside an antique locket.

“This doesn’t look like her,” says Grover, staring at Stella. Sincethat photo, her hair has darkened and lost its curl, and her face is rounder.

But Pete scoffs. “She’s grown, that’s all.”

Rolfe asks Stella if she can point out her dad. Stella says something incomprehensible, her mouth twisting around strange sounds.

“What did she say?” Rolfe asks Mandy. Mandy squats down next to Stella and points to Pete.

“Is that man your father, sweetie?”

This time I recognize Stella’s words.

“Yes atum yem ayd mardun,”she says.

“She’s saying, ‘I hate that man.’ ” I clear my throat. “In Armenian.”

“Come again?” says Grover

The grooves at the side of Rolfe’s mouth deepen. “You should have told us she doesn’t speak English.”

“She does,” Pete says.

Rolfe frowns. “Can one of you try speaking to her?”

I scratch my arms. “We don’t speak Armenian.”

Rolfe looks from me to Pete to Stella, as if formulating a new theory about what is going on here. I scratch harder. This is going to end up with both of us getting arrested. God knows what will happen to Stella.

“Stella, please,” tries Pete. “This is not a game.”

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