Zehra felt dreamy. It seemed the crowds of people kept passing through the tables endlessly, like a slow-flowing river. Her mind wandered through the past several days. Exhaustion tiptoed around her. She thought of the trial starting on Monday, her violent client that she would fight with, the threats, the bombing, her mother’s interest in Michael and the relationship. Zehra also thought of Michael. Where was he?
Her fatigue made it hard to think objectively. Maybe she shouldn’t be objective about love. All her life, she’d been analytical, hard-working, dedicated to her career. Look where it had gotten her. She longed to let go, to trust him and have fun.
He’s lying. Denzel’s words echoed in her mind.
“But look at all the wonderful things he’s done,” she argued back to the absent investigator. “His kindness, work in the mosque, intelligence, worldly charm, and look at how all these students love him.” Zehra glanced at the group, their faces lit up by pride.
Her eyes traveled from the crowd to the tables and to the projects. She was sitting close to Sergio’s heart model, and she noticed the curved scalpel.
The curved knife used to kill Ahmed—Zehra’s mind snapped to attention. What was it about the curved knife? Something in the property room had tweaked her brain. She searched for the idea, but it rolled over and disappeared from her thoughts. Then it came back and struck her hard. Her chest ached painfully. One of the boys looked back at her in concern. She waved him off. Rain drummed on the big windows and ran down in slow, torturous streams.
When Denzel and Zehra had watched the video of the murder, Michael had been with them. She had been unable to actually see the knife do its horrible work because the killer had been so fast. But Michael had talked about the “curved” knife in the video. How could he see it and know it was curved?
Zehra started to shake. She couldn’t breathe. She fought to gain control. Everything crashed down on her like a tsunami hitting a harbor. The thought of Michael killing the young man sickened her. He must be involved in the disappearance of the Somalis—but why?
More came crashing down around her. The betrayal, the lies, the gifts he’d given her. The long talks about life and progressive Islam—all of it staged and false. Tears streamed down her face. How could she have missed it? An intense pain slammed into her side. Two of the students turned to her and asked if she was okay.
Zehra calmed herself, taking several deep breaths. She stood and walked to the window and looked outside. She balanced herself against the wall. Cool air streamed over her ankles from the vent along the wall. Outside, purple clouds hung low. Under the bushes, shadows filled in, hiding the lawns and sidewalks.
How could she escape? Even though Michael was still in the school somewhere, Zehra could try to make it to the FBI agent before Michael found her.
Zehra pushed her way through the crowds, glad to be hidden among them, to find the agent. She squeezed next to the door but couldn’t find him. Where did he go? Maybe he was strolling around the fieldhouse, drawn by interest in the science projects. Zehra stood on her toes and searched the crowd for him. The agent was gone. Like a fool, she’d never thought to get his cell phone number—she’d never imagined she would need it.
A new surge of people came in from outside, damp from the rain but laughing and happy to be at the Expo.
Michael would certainly come back for her. She hid behind a new crowd of people with umbrellas. She tried to call Paul. No answer. She texted him, in caps, to help her. Fighting to calm down, she decided to merge with one of the big crowds that was leaving and get outside. Once there, she could escape.
But for now, the only people leaving were singles and couples. Zehra couldn’t hide in such a small group. Michael could be outside, waiting for her, especially since she’d left the Academy students. Could Zehra fake it, pretending nothing was wrong until she could get away? Maybe. She worked her way back to the Academy tables.
She felt dizzy and grabbed the edge of one of the tables to steady herself. This would be tough. Her cell phone rang so loudly that her hand swept the table top, knocking off Sergio’s jar. It smashed on the floor, splattering blood across her shoes. She fumbled to answer the phone. It was Michael.
“I am so sorry to be late. How is everything?”
Zehra gulped a breath of air. “Uh—Yeah, things are great. Where are you?”
“I am in the fieldhouse and will come to you right now.”
“Sure—I’ll watch for you.” She hung up and grabbed her purse. She pushed her way through the crowd and headed for the outside door. Even though it was only a small group, Zehra slipped into the middle of it and made her move to get outside. The rain came down heavily, and it was difficult to see. No Michael. He must still be inside. The rain would also make it hard for him to find her.
In a few minutes, she saw the lights from his car turn on and slice through the darkness. Zehra moved in the opposite direction. She started to walk quickly. She could beat him.
He jumped out of his car faster than she’d planned. Michael ran toward her in long, graceful strides. “I am so sorry,” he shouted. “I should have come back sooner.” He wore a rain jacket with the hood pulled up, partially hiding his face. The lights from his car reflected across the parking lot surface.
She avoided looking at his face but stopped walking. It was impossible to outrun him. She would have to fake it. “Sure. I’ve got a lot of work left to do tonight. Can you take me home right away?”
He held her with both of his hands on her shoulders. Black shadows hovered along the sides of the building. The rain drummed without interest, and more fog curled around her legs. Michael looked down at her. “Thanks for your help tonight.”
Mixed emotions flooded through Zehra. His hands felt strong and confident, and that scared her. Should she try to run?
Zehra looked up at him. “Hey, no problem. It was fun.” When she tried to move past him, he held her firmly. The rain seeped through her thick hair and ran down her face.
“What is wrong?” His voice dropped to a lower register than Zehra had ever heard before.
“Uh . . . nothing. I’ve got a lot of work, and besides, it’s raining. I’m soaking wet.”
“Something is wrong. I can tell something is wrong with you.” He pushed her toward the door of his car. “We will find out. It is too late for deception.”
“Let me go—please,” she pleaded.
His hair fell forward on either side of his face. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. His arms started to pull her closer. “You will come with me.”
“No. If you have any feelings about me, let me go. I haven’t done anything.” Zehra twisted her body to the left and slipped from his grip. For a moment, both were surprised. Then she started to run down the sidewalk away from the car.
“Stop!” he bellowed and chased her. A few people paused to look.
Zehra screamed at them, “Help me.” She picked up speed until her foot caught on one of the broken concrete slabs. She fell hard on her side. With her face on the ground, she couldn’t breathe.
Michael towered above her. He reached down and yanked her up. When she went limp, he dragged her toward the car. Zehra kicked at him but missed. She tried to plant her heels in the wet grass but only slid closer to the car. Michael tugged harder.
“No, please,” she begged.
“You cannot be allowed to reveal anything. I have worked too long,” he screamed.
“Why?”
“For the glory of Allah. Why else, you fool?” He wrenched her arm to force her to move.
“Killing innocent boys is for the glory of Allah?”
“You would not understand. You are an infidel.” His hand shot toward her throat and grabbed the scarf he’d given to her. With a twist of his wrist, he tightened it around Zehra’s neck. She gagged and followed him.
Then her fear coalesced into hatred and anger. Zehra squirmed to the left until he lost his grip on the scarf. She put her foot
underneath her, prepared to bolt. She shoved off, but the wet grass caused her to slip and she slammed onto the ground.
Michael was on her like a cat. His weight suffocated her. His arms went around her neck. Zehra felt her head jerked up until it hurt and realized her throat was exposed. No . . . no, her brain screamed. She saw the glint of a knife off to the side of her decreasing vision. Rain fell effortlessly and without concern on her.
He mumbled something that sounded like a prayer. Michael shifted to the side and pulled her head in the same direction. He stiffened along the length of his body.
Zehra tried to scream, but his arm around her neck made it impossible. An image of her parents flashed through her mind. She started to cry. A beautiful kaleidoscope of colors flashed around her, blue and yellow and green from the refracted headlights on the wet pavement.
She tried to fight to the last, but she realized it was hopeless. She collapsed and braced for the pain.
Suddenly, Michael’s weight disappeared. His body lifted off her and rolled to the side. He grunted. Zehra gagged and gasped for air. Her lungs sucked hard, fighting to keep her alive.
When Zehra rolled onto her hands and knees, she saw Paul wrestling with Michael in the grass. They struck at each other, twisting to get an advantage, slipping in the mud. Michael no longer had a knife, but he was strong and seemed to be winning.
Paul separated, inched away on his butt in the grass, and reached behind his back. He drew out a pistol. As he brought his arm forward, it tangled in his wet sport coat.
Michael pounced. He kicked the gun from Paul and shoved him over on his side. The gun skittered across the sidewalk. Before Paul could recover, Michael grabbed the gun and stood.
“Stop,” Zehra yelled.
A loud bang echoed off the wall. Zehra looked at Paul and saw a bloody mist explode from his thigh. He shouted and jerked to his side. Zehra crawled toward him. Paul writhed in pain. Zehra turned to Michael. “Stop. Please, stop.”
Michael leaned forward and raised the pistol again, pointing at Zehra. “This must happen,” he mumbled. Long wet hair stuck to his face. His long nose curved out from a twisted face.
Zehra tried to get up. As she lifted her hands in useless protest, Paul moaned something. He pointed to his ankle. She ran her hand along his leg, pulled up the bloody pants cuff, and found a small gun. Paul collapsed onto his back.
Michael’s gun barked, but he missed.
Zehra held the pistol in both shaking hands. It was wet, and she fought to keep from losing her grip and dropping it. She finally got it pointed at Michael’s chest. He raised his gun again. Zehra’s mind drifted into the fog that surrounded her, and she closed her eyes. Zehra jerked the trigger.
Chapter Forty-Four