“But I did see a man sneak out of her place a while ago,” she adds. “A pale man in a brown safari hat. About two or three weeks ago, I’d say.”
I feel instantly resentful, though I have to admit that my response is irrational. There’s nothing between Ranna and me. Just this thing, this feeling. The way she looks at me. The way I feel when she does.
I shake my head, annoyed, and stare at my feet in the mud-covered boots that were brand-new when I left Johannesburg. So this is how a teenage boy feels. I’ve completely forgotten.
When I look up, Hadhi seems amused. “So she’s got to you too,” she remarks dryly.
“What do you mean?” I feign ignorance.
“You all look the same when you first arrive here. Happy, then angry. And then disappointed. You never even got around to being happy.”
“We all?” I sound angrier than I mean to.
Hadhi steps back, her hands back on her hips. She blinks a few times, suddenly on guard.
“I’ll tell Ranna you were here,” she says and steps back, her back stiff.
“Can I leave her a message? Somewhere she’ll find it?” I call out before she can close the door. I step forward so that most of my size elevens are parked on her white tiles. “I’m worried, Hadhi. That’s all, I promise. Just like you. I saw Ranna briefly last night. I think she was hurt. She was bleeding.”
She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head. “Like I said, people keep to themselves around here. Ranna comes and goes without telling anyone her business. She doesn’t socialize here. Push a note under her door.”
“I will.” I step back into the rain. “Thanks, Hadhi.”
She nods but her hand remains on the doorknob. Her eyes are clouded. She seems to be weighing my sincerity, deciding whether I really care about Ranna.
“Bleeding, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Badly?”
“Her arm. Badly enough.”
“Maybe you should make sure she’s not there. She may not have locked her door.”
We’re both silent for a moment. Then Hadhi waves a stiff goodbye.
“Thanks,” I say before she closes the door.
I’ve known Ranna for less than two weeks, but I know she’d lock her door. She’s not stupid. If my suspicion is right, Hadhi will be heading around the back of the house at this very moment to unlock the apartment.
I also know without a doubt that I should let the whole thing go. If Ranna finds out I broke into her home, this will be over before it has begun—whatever this is.
But there’s something else I know: if you chase stories long enough—if you hunt chaos—you learn to trust your instincts. And my gut is telling me something’s wrong.
7
I wait on the sidewalk, giving Hadhi sufficient time to unlock Ranna’s apartment. No need to rush the woman. I watch as an old, dented Datsun and its three passengers slowly turns the corner, then hurry to the second bright-blue door in the row of apartment entrances.
I hope I’m wrong about Ranna. With any luck, she’s safe and perfectly well.
Before I even touch the door, I see it. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Despite the rain, there’s a rusty-red smear at the lower end of the metal doorknob—like something from a Kandinsky painting.
It’s easy to remove. I rub it between my thumb and index finger. Smell it. Is it blood?
Cautiously I test the doorknob. To my relief it moves under my fingers. The door opens noiselessly.
My breathing accelerates, then slows and becomes regular, as always before a big story, when the adrenaline makes way for self-control.
I enter, then stand completely still. “Ranna?”
Nothing. No sound or movement.
Water from my shoes and jacket forms a puddle on the floor. I place my shoes just inside the door, with my coat on top. I’ll clean up later, even if it means using my T-shirt.
Inside the apartment it’s airless, as if the place has been closed up for days.
I’ve never been inside Ranna’s apartment before. Hardings is no more than half a mile away, and the one time I was here I said goodbye at the front door.
The place is in a state of organized chaos. Does it always look like this, or has someone been searching for something? There are two dirty mugs on the floor beside a brown leather couch. Judging by the pillow and pale yellow blanket, someone spent the night on the couch.
There are piles of papers and books everywhere, threatening to topple over. I estimate that there are two thousand books or more. They’re stacked against the walls, next to the TV, and behind the couch. Hardcover spines stand in double rows in two bookcases in the living room.
I crouch beside the tower closest to me, scanning the titles. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The Secret Life of Bees. Advanced Quantum Physics. Domestic Violence: How to Survive.
Interesting topics, especially the last one.
I stand up straight. Where does she find so much time to read? Has she truly read all these books? And more importantly: Where do I begin to look for something that will tell me what happened to her?
It can’t be all that hard. I take two steps forward. Her apartment is actually one room—a living room, bedroom, and kitchen combined, with a bathroom hidden in a corner behind my back.
I rock back on my heels. From my position next to the couch I can see the sink in the bathroom. There’s something in it—a red T-shirt, hastily peeled off and discarded? A few inches to the right, and it would have landed on the floor.
I approach, careful not to make a noise. I can’t afford to draw attention to my presence. I don’t want Ranna’s neighbors to know I’m snooping around in her apartment.
The bathroom door creaks when I push it wider open. I stop. Try again. It swings open silently.
I was wrong about the T-shirt. It’s white. I hold it up to the light that falls through the bathroom window. There’s a bloodstain on the left shoulder, like a rose in full bloom. And there’s a tear in the fabric, as if it was slashed with a knife. I push my index finger through the hole. It would take a sizable knife to make a gash this length.
How serious is Ranna’s injury? I thought it was just a nick in her arm.
Then again, is this even her T-shirt?
I shake it out. She wears her T-shirts tight. It could easily be hers.
Where is this damn woman?
I put the shirt back into the basin and walk to the kitchen. There has to be something more, something that will tell me what happened.
I open the fridge. The battered off-white Kelvinator is almost empty. On the counter lies a loaf of dry bread. The sink looks equally sad. It contains a fork, a teaspoon, and five mugs, all of which hold the remnants of coffee. Strong coffee.
Strange medicine for someone who suffers from insomnia. Or perhaps she feels a need for caffeine. Maybe she’s too scared to sleep.
I turn and take another look at the book-filled apartment. Not a purse or cell phone in sight. No sign of her bulky military wristwatch or the numerous silver bracelets she likes to wear.
Does it mean she’s okay? Or does it mean someone made off with everything, including her?
I check my own watch. I’m not going to find any more answers here. And if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for a press conference Joburg insisted I cover. I’ll come back later today. Maybe make a few phone calls. There is no way I’m just going to let this go.