The Widow's Keeper

by Kishan Paul

  “Damn, I forgot to warn you, didn’t I?” A second later, the veil was yanked from her head, and soon the blindfold followed.

  She blinked a few times as her vision adjusted to the light. Cement walls painted in various colors lined both sides of the narrow road on which the car parked. Hibiscus trees in full bloom softened the cold feel of the fences. Every few yards of the wall were broken up with an iron entryway granting access to the homes behind the fence.

  He tugged at the sleeve of her gown. “Remove this, too. We’re almost there.”

  She looked him over. The beard no longer covered his cheeks, and his curls hung loose against his face. She grabbed the hem of the skirt and slid it up her body. Her hands shook as she yanked the heavy fabric over her head. “Who lives there now?”

  He grinned. “My Alyah Bhaabi, her son, and her lazy new husband.”

  A shudder ripped through her. She smoothed out her shirt and hair and pretended to be unaffected by the news. “You brother’s first wife and his old guard now live in your old home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re not happy about it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What makes you say such a thing? I’m smiling, aren’t I?”

  “You’re always smiling.”

  Shariff waved off her comment. “Not important.” He leaned close. “What is important is that we have our facts straight. So listen.”

  She nodded.

  “My father doesn’t want the current residents to know why you have been beckoned. So, the story is you’re here because he wanted to meet you.”

  Ally laughed. “Alyah would never believe I came willingly. She knows how much I hated my life with Sayeed.”

  Shariff pinched her nose. “Ye of little faith. She’ll believe you because you’re also here to get your share of your late husband’s property. It’s no replacement for losing my wonderful brother, of course, but it helps ease the pain.”

  A piece of the puzzle fell into place. “If I, Alyah, and her son all died, who gets Sayeed’s inheritance?”

  Dark brows rose and a gleam glistened in eyes. “As long as my father lives, he controls it all. But once he passes, it would go to his next living kin.”

  “You.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You’re planning on killing us all,” she whispered.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m not killing anyone.” He flashed his palms in her face. “See? My hands are clean.”

  Ally pushed them down. “You’re the puppet master. If they die, their blood is on you.”

  He shrugged. “I am only taking back what’s mine.”

  She counted the lives impacted by him, her face heating at the thought of each and every one. “You’ve killed my husband and Amir. By the end of this week, the toll will more than double. And for what? A house?”

  “A house?” He leaned close until she was sandwiched against the car door and him. He grabbed her chin, and positioned his face inches from hers. “This is not just about a house. This is about reclaiming what’s mine.” Angry eyes drilled into hers. “You can either meet my father and confess to being a killer, or sit silent and allow the widow and her child to perish, but you don’t get to question my motives. Do you understand?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BOMB DETECTION

  His nails dug into her chin and his eyes were wide as his grip on her tightened. A shiver shot through her spine. Ally kept her voice low and let him see her shake. “I’m not a killer.”

  “But you are,” he whispered. The smile returned to his face. “You screamed your confession from the treetops the day you killed him.”

  His words took her back to her final moments in the compound. Held against her will, she had attempted to negotiate with the devil himself, Ibrahim Ayoub. Leader of what was once a powerful terrorist organization, he’d claimed responsibility for the deaths of thousands and was the second most wanted man in the world. She had known better than to think he would let her live when she met with him. Her hope had been to save the boys and Farah. In an attempt to protect the others, she told Ayoub she’d killed Sayeed. Aside from Eddie and the Delta operatives, everyone else who had heard her words was dead—or so she thought.

  When she opened her mouth to speak, Shariff pressed his fingers against it. “Of course you don’t remember, hurt brain and all. What I don’t understand is why everyone thinks Ayoub killed Sayeed.”

  He let go of her but kept his face inches from hers, eyeing her mouth. “Needless to say, a lot of people are itching to hear the truth from these very lips.” He slid back to his spot on the seat and waved at the driver. “Like my father.”

  The car pulled away from the curb and traveled down the cobblestone road. The farther it went, the more rigid Shariff became. His scowl deepened as he gazed straight ahead. She followed his line of sight and noticed the tall, iron gates looming ahead. A narrow graveled road curved past the entrance and disappeared inside the grounds. Red clay tiles sat on the gabled roof and peeked over the tops of the green trees. A turret stood tall in the center of the building. The top of it was lined with windows.

  The car parked in front of the gates and the engine cut off. They had arrived.

  Her pulse heightened. “I am not exactly Wassim and Alyah’s favorite person. There’s a good chance they will kill me before the day is done.”

  Shariff ran a hand through his loose curls. “Then let’s try not to get killed, shall we? My father wants you alive. And your death would be unfortunate for your widow and her baby.”

  He laughed and patted her head. “Don’t worry. Once I’m done talking, they won’t touch a strand on your beautiful head.”

  Two men in navy jumpsuits cracked open the gate, squeezed through, and shut it behind them. Rifles hung against their hips. One was heavyset, and a large white dog on a leash walked alongside him while the other, a leaner guard, approached holding a black object in his hand.

  Shariff tipped his chin at them. “The thing he’s waving is supposedly a bomb detecting device.”

  Ally stared at the gun-like instrument as the watchman pulled at the front of it, extending an antenna, and pointed it at their car.

  “It was proven an expensive fake years ago.” The guard eyed Shariff, who lowered his window and waved back. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath.

  The dog sniffed around the car, while the heavyset man shouted questions in Urdu at the driver and Shariff.

  After he was satisfied with the answers, the guard pounded his fist on the back of their car. “Open your trunk.”

  Shariff kept a smile pasted on his lips and leaned to the driver. “Usman, do as the monkey says,” he hissed. A second later, the trunk popped. He leaned his face out his open window and waved at the guard. “All you will find are two suitcases. One for me, and the other is Bhaabi’s clothes. Now, please, a little respect?”

  Ally stayed frozen in her seat. She had returned to the world she fought to escape, and unlike the past few years, none of this was a dream. She stared at the door handle. Once the car pulled inside the gates, she might never get out. The last time, it cost her two years and lots of heartbreak to finally gain her freedom.

  One of the watchmen pulled out his phone and called someone while the other searched the suitcases in the trunk. Suitcases she never realized she had. Both guards bent down and peered over at her. The one with the phone took her picture and sent it.

  The guard pointed at Ally’s door. “Darwaza khulte hai.”

  Shariff nodded. “He wants you to open your door and get out. Brace yourself. You are about to be inappropriately groped and fondled all in the name of security.”

  Ally climbed out and stared back at the road they’d traveled as rough hands gripped her shoulders. He pulled her arms out, stretching them as far as they could reach. She clenched her fists and fought the urge to push him away when he patted her back and sides.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A WELCOME FACE

&nbs
p; Ally looked over Shariff’s shoulder while he rang the doorbell. Carved into the wood of the tall mahogany doors was an intricate forest scene. From the delicate feathers of the birds in the sky to the complex details in the flowers and leaves in the garden, the artist had not missed a single element in creating the masterpiece. When the doors were closed, as they currently were, a thick-trunked tree formed in the middle. Metal clicked against wood as the locks opened. When the trunk separated in two, the sight of the man who stood between the tree halves made her suck in a breath.

  Dressed in jeans, a loose white tunic, and leather sandals, his sleeves were rolled above his elbows. Muscular and about six feet tall, the man’s black hair was buzzed short and eyes were dark brown. She stared at the blue tinge of a fading bruise clinging to the corner of his right eye. He didn’t say a word, nor did he acknowledge her presence. He didn’t have to. She worked on keeping her face emotionless as excitement surged through her veins.

  Shariff spoke to him in Urdu, but Ally couldn’t focus on his words. For the first time since she’d arrived in Frankfurt, hope fluttered in her gut. Eddie stepped aside, allowing them in. With every step she took, she walked taller and her head lifted a little higher. Ally followed Shariff, ignoring the man at the door. She scanned the foyer. Creamy marble tiles, swirled with grays and silver, covered the floor while soft beige paint hugged the walls. A silver mirror hung over a dark wood console table.

  She noticed the way Shariff ran his hand over the table as he entered the huge expanse of a living room. He stopped in front of a large staircase in the middle of the room and gripped the banister, staring at the top floor. Its thick, dark wood rails and long stone rungs made it the centerpiece of the home. The marble stairs ascended up the height of the mansion, branching out into two separate directions.

  While she watched Shariff, she felt someone watching her. Her skin prickled. She scanned the room for the source. Hand-carved furniture adorned with richly upholstered cushions brightened the space. Tapestries in deep reds and golds hung against the walls. The furnishings, the carvings, the art, everything about it exuded wealth.

  Wassim sat at the far end of the room, in a leather armchair, his dark eyes burning into her. Acid rose in her throat. Ally met his gaze, refusing to look away, and approached him. As Sayeed’s widow, she still held a position of power—a fact they both knew. His thick brows lowered, almost forming a straight line, and his jaw shifted from left to right as he grit his teeth.

  Dressed in a long white shirt, which hung below his knees, and loose matching pants, his arms rested on the sides of his chair. At five-six, Wassim was average-sized. But what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in his ability to intimidate. It was the reason Sayeed hired him to guard his first wife. Little did Sayeed realize the guard would do more with his wife’s body than protect it. Times had changed, and the man before her no longer claimed the title of Alyah’s hired guard. He had replaced Sayeed as both her husband and the ruler of the arms trade business his wife’s late husband created.

  “Such a handsome little guy,” Shariff said as he walked by. It was only then she noticed the child seated on Wassim’s lap. “Spitting image of my late brother except for the eyes. Those are clearly his mother’s. Don’t you think, Bhaabi?”

  Enormous green orbs stared up at Shariff as the grown man squatted and pinched the child’s cheek. “Hello there. I’m your chacha.” His plump face tilted and chubby cheeks turned rosy. Brown curls, identical to Wassim’s, bounced when he turned his back to them, hiding his face in his father’s chest.

  “Just like his father,” she answered.

  Shariff translated her response. Although Wassim said nothing, from the way his jaw twitched, her message had hit the target.

  A plump little hand grasped Wassim’s ear, pulling it closer to his tiny mouth. The boy pointed back at her as soft words floated through the room, far from the whisper he intended. “Babba, who is she?” he asked in Urdu.

  Wassim put an arm around the child, pressing him close, and rested his cheek against the boy’s as his icy stare returned to Ally. “No one you need to be afraid of, son. As long as Babba is here, no one will hurt you.”

  Her chest tightened. His words also hit their target. Only his was a lie. She scanned the space and the men standing around her. So much evil surrounded them, and in the center of it all was a tiny boy with green eyes who had good reason to be scared. They all did.

  In the back of the space, an open door led into the hallway. At the threshold stood a woman with the same beautiful green eyes as the child, but this pair was filled with fear. In the three-plus years since their paths had crossed, the sharp edges of Alyah’s face had rounded. Her once pale skin had warmed to a soft brown. As beautiful as she was before, she was even more so now.

  She wore a short-sleeved paisley salwar in pale yellow and matching leggings. Unlike the Alyah of the past, her dark hair was left uncovered, pulled away from her face. A scarf draped around her neck, the edge of which she twisted.

  The woman’s neck turned a deep red under Ally’s gaze. There was no doubt she wished it was all a bad dream. Up until a few minutes ago, Alyah believed Sayeed’s second wife had died, and the only people alive who knew about her affair and the truth about the child seated in her husband’s lap was herself and Wassim.

  “Alyah Bhaabi! You look stunning as ever.” Ally looked over her shoulder at Shariff. He leaned against the banister of the stairs, arms crossed, a smirk on his face. “And look at the surprise I brought with me.”

  Alyah glanced at him briefly before staring back at the floor. “It has been a long time, Shariff.”

  He laughed. “I know. I have been busy but hopefully bringing Sara Bhaabi will earn my forgiveness? She is a miracle, isn’t she?”

  “We were told she died three years ago with Sayeed,” Wassim said flatly. “How did she survive?”

  Ally looked around the opulent home, pretending to not understand the conversation around her. When Shariff started to translate, Wassim silenced him. “Hassan will ask her what happened.”

  “Wassim would like to know if Sayeed is alive.” Eddie spoke in English, but his words were thick with accent.

  Ally cleared her throat. “I was told he died in the explosion.” She kept her hands clasped and head down as he translated her response to Wassim.

  “Who told you this?”

  “The American soldiers,” she said.

  “Did she actually see him dead?” Ally’s heart tugged at the fear in Alyah’s voice.

  After Eddie translated her question, Ally met her gaze. “No. I was hurt in the explosion, and when I woke up, I was in a hospital in Germany with no memory of what happened.”

  “And everyone else?” Eddie asked.

  Ally sucked in a breath. “Dead.”

  “Liar,” Wassim growled. “She has always been a liar. There were over fifteen people with her in the house. And only she survived? Impossible. Unless she had a hand in killing the rest.”

  Her body tensed. Three other men stood around the room. Although she couldn’t see their guns, she was confident they were armed and would do whatever their boss commanded. She held her hands together in front of her and forced herself to stay still.

  “He asks how you survived and no one else did?” Eddie translated.

  “I don’t know. I went back to the States after recovering from my wounds.”

  “She hated us all. The woman is here only for money,” Wassim snapped upon hearing her response. “She should be dead, not standing in my home.”

  “The length of her life is not your decision to make, Wassim. And,”—Shariff stretched out his hands—“as far as this home is concerned, it is not yours. It is my father’s. He will arrive Sunday so he can talk to her personally and hear the story for himself.” He walked to her side and crossed his arms. “Let me be very clear to all of you. She is my bhaabi. My brother’s wife. As such, everyone in this house will treat her with the respect she deserves. I
f she is hurt in any way, you will have to answer to not only me but my father. Understood?”

  Wassim’s scowl deepened, but he did not respond. A heavy silence fell upon the room as most glared and one smirked. “Now, will someone see to it that a nice room is prepared for her?”

  Eddie nodded, grabbed her suitcase, and disappeared up the stairs.

  “Excellent.” Shariff wandered over and picked up the child from his father. The little boy looked between the lap he left to the face of the man who currently held him, as if trying to decide if he was happy with the change. “You’re not scared of me, are you?” he asked the child in a singsong voice.

  Ally remained rooted to the floor, willing the child to cry and run away. Unfortunately, the toddler grinned and shook his head.

  Shariff laughed. “Smart boy. We are going to have a lot of fun together.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE

  Wassim and Shariff walked off, discussing preparations for his father’s arrival and leaving Ally and three of the guards alone. They were dressed the same, in jeans and long tunics. None of them stared at her, but she knew they were keenly aware of every breath she took. She looked over at the two people who did overtly stare at her—Alyah and her son. The child leaned against his mother’s legs while he surveyed Ally. He tilted his chin and looked her over as if assessing her threat level. Once he’d deemed her safe, he raised a plump hand and pulled up four fingers. “Mera naam Aadam hai. Main teen saal ka hu,” he announced in Urdu.

  “He says his name is Aadam. And that he is three,” Eddie said while he descended the stairs. She walked over to the child and squatted to face him. His green eyes were pale and lighter than David’s but they still reminded her of him and her chest ached. She stretched out her hand and grabbed the four fingers he still held out, giving it a squeeze.

  “Hi, Aadam.”