Karim continued.
"My mother had a sister. Her name was Amira. She was born in Portugal. There was a family dispute decades ago."
"What kind of dispute?"
"I don't know."
"You're a millionaire. You have lawyers, investigators, access to records. You couldn't find out?"
"I tried."
"And?"
"My mother refused to talk about it."
Lina stared at the key.
"What does this open?"
Karim didn't answer.
That frightened her more than anything else.
Finally, he said:
"A house."
"Whose house?"
"My mother's."
Lina looked at him.
"I thought your mother lived abroad."
"She does now."
"Then why does she have a house in Lisbon?"
Karim's voice became quieter.
"Because she left something there."
Lina felt a chill.
"What?"
"I don't know."
The House
That afternoon, Lina and Karim drove to the address on the back of the photograph.
The house was in an older part of Lisbon.
It was smaller than Lina expected.
Nothing about it looked like the home of a wealthy family.
The paint was faded.
The garden was overgrown.
The windows were covered.
Karim removed the old key from his pocket.
Lina stood beside him.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
Karim nodded.
He unlocked the door.
The house smelled of dust and old wood.
Inside were photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Lina walked slowly through the rooms.
Then she saw a framed photograph on the wall.
She stopped.
The woman in the photograph was Karim's mother.
Beside her stood another young woman.
And between them was a little girl.
Lina stared at the child.
Something about her face seemed familiar.
Karim walked beside her.
"What?"
Lina pointed.
"Who is the little girl?"
Karim looked at the photograph.
His face changed.
"I don't know."
Lina moved closer.
There was something on the girl's dress.
Three small embroidered flowers.
White flowers.
Exactly like the flowers Lina's own mother had taught her to sew.
Lina stepped backward.
"No."
Karim looked at her.
"What?"
"My mother used to make those."
He stared at the photograph.
"Your mother?"
Lina nodded.
She suddenly remembered something from childhood.
A story her mother had told her once.
About a woman she had known in Portugal.
A woman who disappeared from her life without explanation.
Lina had never understood the story.
Until now.
Karim looked at her.
"Maybe our families knew each other."
Lina shook her head.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because my mother told me that the woman disappeared."
Karim went still.
"Who disappeared?"
Lina stared at the photograph.
"The woman in the picture."
The Hidden Room
They searched the house for hours.
Eventually, Lina discovered something unusual behind a bookshelf.
A narrow gap.
She pulled the shelf slightly.
It moved.
Behind it was a hidden compartment.
Inside was a small wooden box.
Karim opened it.
There were letters.
Dozens of them.
Most were written in Arabic.
