Excerpt from The Confusion of Languages by Siobhan Fallon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I should go to the police station with you," I say. "It'll be easier to find with the two of us."

She shakes her head, lifting a fist of keys from her purse; loose Cheerios fall out on the floor. "No, the baby's hungry, he needs a nap." She watches her son for a moment before training those red eyes back on me. "I mean, if you don't mind, I'd rather you stay here with him."

I nod. Mather reaches for the large black garbage bag slumped at the side of the welcome mat and I swing him away, press a kiss on his sweaty little head. I want to ask Margaret why no one has cleared her trash away—that lazy boab of hers is always hovering about trying to get a glimpse down her T-shirts; where is he when she needs him?—but I notice her hands are shaking so badly she can't get the key in the lock. I give her the baby, remove the key from her grip.

"I've got it," I say as I twist the lock and then push the apartment door open.

"Thanks, Cass." She doesn't seem grateful. Instead she's even more crestfallen, as if I've taken something from her I shouldn't have. The ability to open her door? I'm confused and I step aside to let her scurry past into the blacked-out foyer. I watch her flick a few lights on. She usually keeps the windows wide and full of sun. It's disorienting to leave the afternoon behind us and face something so dark, all the shades drawn. Her apartment also smells funny, not quite rank, but stale, used diapers and food that has sat out too long. I hesitate in the doorway, then kick off my shoes and follow her.

"Margaret, you should print out directions to the police station — it's a mess down there," I say as she heads into the master bedroom. She closes the door behind her, a solid click, a sudden Do not enter between us. I stop and wait for her to emerge, wait for her to shout to me, wait for anything, but there is only silence. Usually Margaret breast-feeds Mather wherever the inclination takes her, never bothering to cover up or hide the act, sitting on the couch, at the kitchen table, on the linoleum floor with her knees up and the baby on her thighs, kicking his feet. Not today.

After a moment, I head toward the kitchen, turning on more lights as I go.

The sink is a disaster, withered tea bags left curled around spoons, baby bowls caked with dried oatmeal and smears of yogurt. I begin to tidy up, stacking the dishes and peeling balled-up dishtowels from the countertops. We should have gone directly to the police station the way we were supposed to. The embassy fixer had come out to the scene of the accident, explained Margaret would need to file a report at the main headquarters in downtown Amman, sign a few forms. He even offered to lead us there in his embassy vehicle and act as a translator.

"Yes," I'd agreed. "It won't take long."

"And the guilt fee is not so expensive," the guard had said amicably. "Perhaps it is less than fifteen American dollars."

That's when Margaret lost it. She said she was taking her baby home, she was innocent, damn it, innocent! Didn't he know what that meant? How could the price matter? The man stood there, baffled beneath his mustache.

Though I shouldn't have been surprised. Margaret never ­actually does what she's supposed to do here in Jordan, does she? Why, we could have already been finishing up now, this could have already been transformed into nothing more than an ­anecdote to tell at the next cocktail party. Another expat found guilty in a fender bender, it's the cross we all bear, trial by traffic­accident. But no, Margaret never listens. Margaret never takes my advice or anyone else's, Margaret has to do everything her own way.

I slam a dirty-rimmed coffee cup into the sink. There are few dishwashers, even in the ritzy, newer neighborhoods like this near the US embassy. I don't feel like rolling up my sleeves and washing dishes for her today. When she comes out from behind her closed door, disobedient Margaret can do it herself.

Excerpted from The Confusion of Languages by Siobhan Fallon. Copyright © 2017 by Siobhan Fallon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.