“We talked to Cameron,” said Rakkim. “He said to tell you hi.”

“Is he all right?” said Fancy.

“He’d like to visit with you and your girlfriend again,” said Rakkim. “He said it was the best birthday he ever had.”

“Jeri Lynn liked him too.” Fancy sat on the crab, her shoulders drooping. “I should have gone back for him. Cameron doesn’t have anyone to look after him.”

“Something we all have in common.” Sarah sat beside her. “I lost my parents when I was five. Rakkim was orphaned when he was nine.”

Fancy stared at her, making sure. “I…I was seven.” This close, even by candlelight, the face under her makeup was visible. Fancy was hollowed-out, sick, wasting away. “You never get over it, do you?”

“No.” Rakkim and Sarah said it at the same time.

“I’d like some money,” Fancy said quietly. “You said you’d pay. I don’t think it’s wrong to ask for money if I’m helping you. That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?”

Rakkim pressed a wad of bills into her hand. Her eyes widened and he almost expected her to tell him it was too much, but she just tucked it away in her brassiere. As she did, he saw a perfectly circular scar at the base of her throat. Sarah saw it too. Tracheotomy scar. The addict’s badge of courage. She must have OD’d one time too many and been brought back to life. Against her will, probably. He had seen enough men dying, men who had fought against him as he’d struggled to save them, content to slip away from this world, ready to take their chances in the next.

“Your father died right after he came back from China,” said Sarah.

Fancy shrugged. “My mother and I…we met him at the airport. He was angry with us. We weren’t supposed to know that he was arriving home. We saw right away that he was sick. He said he had eaten some bad food on the plane, kaffir food, but I could tell he was lying. I could always tell.” She looked at Sarah. “What do you care about all this for?”

“I’m doing historical research on that period. The years prior to the takeover. Prior to the Zionist attack.”

“What does that have to do with my father? He was already dead by then.”

“I’m just doing background. Your father-”

“It must be nice to be a history teacher.” Fancy played with her hair. “I used to want to be a teacher. An elementary-school teacher. I always loved kids.” She rolled her hair back and forth between her right thumb and forefinger. “I can’t have ’em.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sarah.

“It’s okay. I probably wouldn’t have been a good mother anyway.” Fancy looked at Rakkim. “You’re no historian.”

Rakkim smiled.

Fancy didn’t return the smile. “I know men. I can tell things about them before they even open their mouth. Just from their shoes. Or their hands. Or their eyes. Their eyes most of all.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell anything about you, though.” She glanced at Sarah. “Can you?”

“We grew up together,” said Sarah. “I know him.”

Fancy watched Rakkim. “I hope so.”

“When your father came back from China, did he talk about his trip?” asked Sarah. “Places he had been, people he had met?”

“I just remember him throwing up a lot. And my mother crying.”

“He was working on that big dam in China,” said Sarah. “That must have been exciting for him.”

“I haven’t thought about those days in a long time. I was happy then. My father was strict, but he loved me very much.” Fancy kept her eyes on Sarah. “He used to call me his jewel. He used to hold me in his arms and call me his jewel.”

Rakkim let Sarah do the talking. Fancy had clearly had enough of men. The walls of the shark were covered with obscene graffiti, the floor littered with fast-food wrappers and worse. It smelled of urine and wet cardboard and dirty underwear. Fancy’s scented candles were hopeless but endearing. Maybe she just thought it was good business.

“The house you used to live in was torn down many years ago,” said Sarah. “I checked.”

“No one would have lived in that house. It was bad luck. Everyone knew that when my father died. The way he died. So sick.”

“You didn’t take him to a doctor? We couldn’t find any records.”

“A doctor came to the house. One I had never seen before. He gave Father pills for the pain, told Mother to keep to the house. To tend him. A bad house. An unlucky house. Then mother getting killed so soon afterwards…” Fancy shook her head.

Sarah looked at Rakkim. “Your mother died three years after your father. I’m sure it seemed too soon, but-”

“It was less than three months. I was there. Mother was driving on the freeway and a tire blew and the car crashed. We were going to the desert to pray. She was driving fast. They said it was a miracle I survived. Mother went through the windshield, but I only had a tiny cut on my leg. They said it was God’s will. They said He must have great plans for me.” Her laugh echoed within the shark.

“What happened to you?” said Sarah. “Who took care of you?”

“A policeman took me home. I wanted to stay with Mother, but he said I had to get my things. It was very strange. Even now I wonder if I was dreaming.” Fancy tugged at her blouse, and the scar at the base of her throat seemed filled with blood in the candlelight. “There were men at the house when we got there. They were loading all of our things into a moving van. The doctor who had taken care of my father was there. I don’t know why, but he was there. The policeman let me put some clothes into a bag. The doctor seemed angry at him, but the policeman said he didn’t care. Then he took me to my uncle’s house. My uncle was a good Muslim. He was obligated to take me in, but I don’t think he really wanted to.” Fancy looked at Rakkim. “Talking about this is making me sad. I’d like some more money, please.”

Rakkim paid her, watched as she tucked the bills away.

“Did Cameron look like he was getting enough to eat?” asked Fancy.

“You don’t have anything from those days left?” said Sarah. “Not necessarily from your father. Maybe your mother kept a diary…or a calendar marking the days until he got home. His notebooks, his suitcases…something?”

Fancy shook her head. “The doctor had it taken all away. He emptied the house.” Fancy’s expression tightened. “Why are you really asking about my father? Don’t give me that story about a history assignment either. I didn’t believe that for a minute.”

“We think your father was murdered,” said Rakkim. “After what you told us about the car crash, I think your mother was probably murdered too.”

“Are you a cop?” said Fancy. “I haven’t had much luck with cops.”

“When my father would go away, he would always bring me back something from his trip,” said Sarah. “I treasured them-”

“Lucky you.” The candles were bouncing, shadows racing around Fancy. “He didn’t bring me anything.”

“Not even a postcard?” said Sarah.

“What do you think you’re going to do with all these questions, Miss History?” said Fancy. “You going to raise the dead? It doesn’t matter how they died. All that matters is that they’re dead and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.”

“The doctor who treated your father, the one who emptied your house…did you ever see him again?” asked Rakkim.

“Listen to me. I don’t care-” Fancy stopped as Rakkim held up a hand.

“Someone’s outside.” Rakkim was already blowing out the candles.