Fifty-Nine
Daniel Addas
Zayed Addas. Zayed fucking Addas. Here. Alive. Breathing.
I'm stunned.
And so is Jones. His hand cramps over the edge of the desk and I stare at it for a moment. He looks at my father who's towering over us, arms akimbo. Papa glares at Mr. Jones and shakes his head like he would at a dog that messed on the couch. I feel so small. My borrowed confidence darts out of the window.
It doesn't matter how many times I close my eyes, shake my head, and chant sobs. No. No. No. No. It doesn't change the fact that he's here. Looking dapper than ever. It's still the same man I last saw around about two months ago.
What's going on here? Who did I mourn? Who is on that grave? Did Clara...?
The fucking bitch. She lied to me.
Is Papa in on the lie too? Is Mama? Lulu?
My father is well and alive. Alive. Like some Hollywood superstar caught in a cheating scandal cameras flash. The entire police station is flooded by Paparazzi. Way more than the annoying people who were at the entrance when I pulled up in the driveway.
It's like someone tipped them off. Told them this is the place to be. Sold the story before there was even a scandal. Clara. No one else but.
Did Clara play us?
Lulu Barika, Mama, me. But what was Zayed's role in all this?
"Just when I was wrapping the case up," Jones says. Drains his paper cup, coffee? Water? He crumbles the thing in one hand. "Is that who I think it is?"
Ghost nods. He suddenly seems less enthusiastic. This is the most complicated case in South African history. Behind Zayed the cameras aim to blind us. They click away. Questions, burning-burning questions fly: Where were you, Zayed? Where you hiding? Why'd you come back? Did you fake your murder?
And then it hits me.
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