But no matter how her mind tried to accept this explanation, she couldn’t help how seeing the knife made her feel.
Like it had been left there as a pointed message.
Just for her.
Tasnim,Aunt of the Bride
Don’t misunderstand me. I think this is a lovely wedding week. Tasteful, thoughtful. Luma is such a dear putting us up in these wonderful accommodations.
But when I think about the sheer cost of all of this, I can’t help but shake my head. Take, for example, the floral arrangements. They swap out new ones for each event. Surely that alone is a year’s mortgage for some of us. I heard they flew in the dholki drummers first class from Toronto. And between the welcome bags, the Tiffany key chains, and all the other favors, we’re talking thousands of dollars per guest. It’s not just wasteful to flaunt one’s wealth like this—it can draw the wrong kind of attention.
Take that woman Gita, for instance. That nurse. She is certainly helpful. Always hovering at Frida’s side. Ready to address any issue. But might one wonder if she’s a touch too helpful? Have you noticed how Frida clings to her every word? She won’t take a step without her permission. It’s painful to watch a woman of such standing reduced to this. And I’m sorry to say it’s theperfect setup for someone less than trustworthy to step in and take advantage.
I tried telling Lulu, but she waved me off. Called Gita a saint. I debated approaching Hena—she’s the elder daughter, after all—but that girl is too busy with her romantic escapades to see what’s happening right under her nose.
It’s a shame money can’t protect us from poor decisions. I suppose wealth makes fools of us all. Some sooner than others.
11
•
Hena stepped onto the oversized stucco balcony running the back length of the resort, overlooking the grounds beyond. A cool breeze brushed against her, rustling her dress. Unlike the cloudy, dark skies from the night before, the weather tonight was clear. A crescent moon hung in the night sky.
The mayoun had been underway a few hours, and the ceremony of applying pasted turmeric to Lulu’s arms and hands to make her skin glow and shimmer for the wedding was at last blessedly done. Through the oversized windows of the hall, she watched the guests dance. Their indistinct conversations drifted through the windows. A handful of servers methodically arranged the kheer and ras malai for dessert, while others set up the chai table with carafes of polished silver and crystal bowls filled with different types of sugar. On the back lawn, staffers moved about, their figures casting long shadows against the light, as they finalized the rescheduled fireworks display that would conclude the night’s festivities.
She shouldn’t have been out here, away from it all, but she needed a breather. Despite the twenty-four hours thathad passed, she still felt like she was recovering. Her mind tried to unravel what didn’t need unraveling—not when the facts lined up exactly as they should.
The storm had caused a power outage. It had only affected the penthouse because—according to Lulu—it had been built on a separate grid.
The creaking sounds she’d heard, creepy as they were, had come from the building’s foundation settling against the wind.
And the knife, the thing that had most chilled her to her core, was the easiest to explain. Lulu loved her expensive knives. Hena had checked the cutlery drawer in her own suite. Sure enough, she’d found a collection of Shun knives there too.
She should have been relieved. An easy enough explanation for everything. Nothing shady. Nothing awry. No one had been lurking behind her in the shadows. Instead, she felt unmoored. Because it was like the universe had strung together a maddening string of coincidences specifically designed to torture her over her past.
Or maybe—she gripped the edge of the balcony—the universe was trying to force her to face her past. Because that moment in the darkened penthouse had, for a few terrifying moments, felt like a repeat of the night in her family boathouse—the one doubling as her bridal suite.
She had been so preoccupied she didn’t notice at first. Not as he crept closer and closer. She’d been glued to her phone. Texting Nasir. Even though she knew she’d never hear from him again. Not if things went as they should.
The creaking of the floorboards had alerted her to his presence.
“Where is he?” a voice had asked.
When she looked up, startled at the unexpected words,there he was. The masked man. Inches from her face. Anger radiated off him like heat.
“I won’t ask again,” he said in a low growl. “Where is he?”
“I—I don’t know,” she began. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday evening. The mehndi—”
He didn’t let her finish. His hands clamped around her throat.
“This isn’t personal,” he said as her vision blurred. “Just sending a message.”
“Please don’t do this,” she gasped, struggling. Her nails scratched at his hands, but his gloved grip was an iron vise. Tightening with each passing second. Her vision had speckled with darkness. The pain unlike anything she’d experienced before or since. Her body had grown heavy as her back slammed against the dressing table, which cut painfully against her. Useless tears had leaked down her face. The world came in and out as her hands dropped to her sides. This was it. She was done.
Through her hazy vision, her head lolling against the dressing table, her eyes landed on the knife resting on the edge. Lulu’s gift. Seconds from blacking out, she strained, inching her hand toward it. Her fingers curled around the hilt. Her body acted on instinct. She lunged forward. The blade found its mark. It was a sharp, clean cut. His grip on her released in an instant as his hands flew to his midsection. He cursed as she fell with a hard thud to the ground.
He had staggered backward, breathing heavily, hatred burning in his eyes. She could tell she had injured him badly, but it hadn’t stopped him from taking a halting step forward. To finish what he’d started. Then—
