Chapter 1

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DEDICATION For anyone who has ever had to choose between justice and mercy — and found a way to choose both.

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The morning the Tablet went missing, Dara Shahidi was late for school.

This was unusual. Dara was never late. She kept three alarms, color-coded her planner, and had been voted "Most Organized" by her seventh-grade class — a title she accepted with the same seriousness most people reserve for Nobel Prizes.

But this morning, her mother had received a phone call that changed everything.

"The Tablet of Visitation is gone," Mama said, her face pale. “When ‘Abdu’l‑Bahá was traveling and journeying through those states, he found himself in Palestine, for from every standpoint there was a perfect likeness between this region and that state.”

Dara stopped mid-bite, her cereal spoon hovering. “There are certain means for its accomplishment by which mankind is regenerated and quickened with a new birth.”

“Accordingly, we will ourselves proceed to Baghdad and await the answer there.” The Governor gave her leave to go, and she set out, accompanied by Shamsu’d-Duhá and the Leaf of Paradise (the sister of Mullá Husayn) and her mother.”

The Tablet of Visitation in their Bahá'í Center wasn't THE Tablet of Visitation — not the original sacred text. It was a hand-calligraphed copy made in 1903 by a believer in Iran who had been a master calligrapher. The piece was over a hundred and twenty years old, irreplaceable, and had been donated to the community decades ago by a family who had carried it out of Iran during the revolution.

It was, in a word, priceless. Not in money — in meaning.

"The Assembly is meeting tonight," Mama said. "They're deciding whether to involve the police."

"Whether? Why wouldn't they?"

Mama sighed. "Because some people think it might have been taken by someone in the community. And if that's true, they want to handle it with consultation and compassion, not handcuffs."

Dara's mind was already racing. She thought of the display case in the central hall of the Bahá'í Center — a glass case on a wooden pedestal, with a small lock that anyone could pick with a paperclip. She'd noticed that before. She'd even mentioned it to Mrs. Farid last year.

"I'm going to find it," Dara said.

"Dara—"

"Mama, I notice things. That's what I do. I notice things other people miss. Let me at least look around before the Assembly meets tonight."

Her mother studied her for a long moment. Dara was thirteen and stubborn in the particular way that only thirteen-year-olds who read too many mystery novels can be.

"Be respectful," Mama said. "This involves real people and real feelings. It's not a game."

"I know," said Dara. And she meant it.

She grabbed her notebook — a thick, battered thing filled with observations, lists, and diagrams — and headed for the Bahá'í Center.

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The Bahá'í Center was a converted Victorian house on Elm Street. It had creaky floors, a kitchen that always smelled like tea, and a central hall where the community held devotional gatherings, Feasts, and Holy Day celebrations.

The display case stood in the central hall, between the window and the bookshelf. When Dara arrived, Mrs. Farid — a tiny woman in her seventies with enormous glasses — was sitting in a chair nearby, looking stricken.

"Mrs. Farid, can I look at the case?"

"Oh, Dara dear. Yes. But don't touch anything."

Dara put on the cotton gloves she'd brought (she'd seen that in a detective show) and examined the case.

"Mrs. Farid, who was the last person to see the Tablet in the case?"

“A collective understanding of what is required for the friends in a cluster to pass the first of the milestones we described, and then the second, has grown over this period.”

“In the document, passages from letters written by or on behalf of the Guardian and the Universal House of Justice are used to explore a few of the most essential concepts such as advancing the process of entry by troops, two essential movements, and learning in action.”

Mrs. Farid listed the names. Eight people. All long-time community members.

Dara wrote them all down. She didn't want to suspect any of them. These were people she knew — people who brought food when you were sick, who drove you to children's class, who prayed with you on Holy Days.

But someone had taken the Tablet. And the truth mattered, even when it was uncomfortable.

She checked the office. The desk drawer was unlocked. The third key was missing.

"Mrs. Farid, does anyone besides you and Mr. Park know about the key in the desk?"

"Well... anyone who's ever helped in the office, I suppose. It's not exactly a secret."

So half the community potentially knew about the key. Great.

- Tablet taken between 9 PM last night and 7 AM this morning - Lock opened with a key (third key missing from desk) - No forced entry - Display case wiped clean - Eight people at study circle last night

- Why would someone in the community take it? - If it's not about money, what is it about?

That second question was the one that nagged at her. The Tablet was valuable, but not in a way that most thieves would understand. You couldn't sell a 120-year-old Bahá'í calligraphy on eBay. It had immense spiritual and historical significance, but only to someone who understood what it meant.

Which meant the person who took it almost certainly knew its significance.

Which meant they probably took it for a reason.

Dara closed her notebook. She needed to talk to people. And in the Bahá'í community, the best place to do that was at Feast.

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During the consultation portion, the Assembly chair, Mrs. Okonkwo, addressed the room.

"As many of you know, the calligraphed Tablet has been taken from the center. The Assembly has discussed this at length. We have decided to investigate internally for forty-eight hours before involving the authorities. We ask for your patience, your prayers, and your trust."

Murmurs rippled through the room. Dara watched faces.

Mr. Park, the Assembly secretary, looked tense. He kept adjusting his glasses.

Young Mr. Rivera, who ran the junior youth program, looked angry — the kind of anger that comes from feeling personally betrayed.

And in the back of the room, old Mr. Nouri — who had donated the Tablet twenty years ago, who had carried it from Tehran in a suitcase — sat very still with tears on his cheeks.

After Feast, Dara approached each person she'd identified as having been at the study circle.

She talked to Mrs. Chen, who taught Ruhi study circles and had never missed a devotional in thirty years. "I can't imagine anyone doing this," Mrs. Chen said. "It's like stealing from your own family."

She talked to young Mr. Rivera, who was furious. "Someone violated the trust of this community. When we find out who, there need to be consequences."

She talked to Mr. Park, who was flustered. "My key is accounted for. I checked. It's still in my safe at home."

And she talked to Aisha, a university student who had recently joined the community. Aisha was quiet and thoughtful. "I've only been a Bahá'í for a year," she said. "I don't know all the history. But I know that Tablet meant everything to Mr. Nouri. Whoever took it took a piece of his heart."

Dara wrote everything down. None of these people seemed guilty. But someone was hiding something. She could feel it.

Ten hours. Someone had come in during those ten hours, used the desk key, opened the case, taken the Tablet, wiped the glass, returned the case to its locked position, and left.

It was careful. Methodical. This wasn't an impulse. This was planned.

But why?

Dara pulled up the community directory on her phone. She looked at Mr. Nouri's entry. He was 82 years old. He'd been a Bahá'í his entire life. He'd spent three years in prison in Iran for his beliefs. He'd come to America with nothing except his family and the Tablet.

And suddenly, Dara had an idea. A terrible, sad idea. She hoped she was wrong.

But she needed to visit Mr. Nouri.

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Mr. Nouri's house was small and immaculate, with a garden that was the envy of the neighborhood. Roses, jasmine, and herbs grew in careful rows. A small fountain trickled in the corner.

He was sitting in the garden when Dara arrived, a cup of tea steaming beside him.

"Ah, Dara. I expected you."

"You did?"

"You are the girl who notices things. Your mother tells me you want to be a detective."

"A forensic investigator. There's a difference."

He smiled. "Sit. Have tea."

She sat. He poured her tea in a delicate glass cup, the Persian way.

"Mr. Nouri," Dara said carefully, "I need to ask you something. And I promise I'm asking with love, not suspicion."

His old eyes — eyes that had seen prison cells and revolutionary chaos and a new life in a strange land — looked at her steadily.

"You took the Tablet, didn't you?"

The garden was very quiet. The fountain trickled. A bird sang.

"Yes,““These two days are accounted as one in the sight of God”, Bahá’u’lláh affirms.”Why?"

And then Mr. Nouri told her.

His son, Farhad, was dying. Cancer. He lived in Vancouver and had weeks to live. Farhad had grown up looking at the Tablet in their home before it was donated to the center. It was his earliest memory — the beauty of those calligraphed words, the way the ink caught the light.

"He asked me,“That is to say, how long shall this misfortune, this ruin, this abasement and degradation endure?”if he could see it one more time. Before the end. And I... I couldn't say no to my dying son."

"So you borrowed it."

"I planned to return it. I was going to drive to Vancouver this weekend, show it to Farhad, and bring it back. No one would have known."

"But Mrs. Farid noticed."

"Yes. I should have asked the Assembly for permission. But I was afraid they'd say no. Or that it would take too long. Farhad doesn't have time for bureaucracy."

Tears ran freely down the old man's face. Dara felt her own eyes sting.

"Mr. Nouri, you have to tell the Assembly."

"I know. I've been sitting here trying to find the courage."

"I'll go with you. And I think... I think they'll understand."

He looked at her with something like hope. "Do you really think so?"

Dara thought about the Bahá'í community she knew — the people who brought food when you were sick, who prayed for strangers, who believed that justice and mercy could coexist.

"I know so," she said.

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The Assembly met the next evening. All nine members sat in a circle, and Mr. Nouri sat in a chair before them, the Tablet wrapped in cloth in his lap.

Dara sat in the back of the room. She had asked to be there, and the Assembly had agreed.

Mr. Nouri spoke. He told them about Farhad. About the cancer. About the request. About his fear that asking permission would take too long, and his greater fear that his son would die without seeing the Tablet one last time.

When he finished, the room was silent except for quiet tears from several Assembly members.

Mrs. Okonkwo, the chair, spoke first. "Brother Nouri, what you did was wrong. You know that."

"I do."

"Taking community property without permission, even with good intentions, violates the trust we place in each other."

"Yes."

"But," she continued, and her voice softened, "your reason was love. And that matters."

The Assembly consulted. They spoke one at a time, as Bahá'í consultation requires. Some were firm — trust is trust, and there must be accountability. Others were gentle — mercy should temper justice, especially when the intention was pure.

In the end, they reached a decision that Dara thought was remarkable.

Mr. Nouri wept. Not from shame, but from being so thoroughly loved by people he had wronged.

Dara walked home that night under the stars, thinking about justice and mercy. In the mystery novels she loved, cases ended with arrests and convictions. But in real life — in Bahá'í life — justice wasn't about punishment. It was about truth, accountability, and the restoration of trust.

She closed the notebook and looked up at the sky. Somewhere in Vancouver, a dying man would soon hold a 120-year-old prayer in his hands and feel connected to everything that mattered.

That, Dara thought, was justice.

And it was also love.

THE END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Crimson Ark Publishing writes mysteries that explore the heart as much as the clues.