And my whole world ended.
She was on the kitchen floor. My sister. My twin. My other half. Lying in a pool of blood that had spread across the linoleum like spilled wine, her eyes open and empty, staring at nothing.
The scream that came out of me didn’t sound human.
“MAMA!” Yusef tried to run to her, but I grabbed him, pulled him against me, pressed his face into my stomach so he couldn’t see. But it was too late. He’d already seen. His whole body was shaking, these awful, broken sounds coming out of him that didn’t even sound like a child.
“Don’t look, baby. Don’t look. I got you. Don’t look.”
I don’t remember how long we stood there. Don’t remember falling to my knees, still clutching Yusef, still trying to shield him from the horror in front of us. The blood was everywhere—so much blood—and Zahara’s eyes were open and I kept waiting for her to blink, to move, to tell me this was some sick joke.
But she didn’t move.
She was gone.
He had found her. He’d come for the witness, found a woman who looked exactly like me, and he’d killed her. Killed my sister. My best friend. The only person in the world who’d loved me exactly as I was.
He didn’t know we were twins. Nobody at the club did. I’d never mentioned having a sister, let alone an identical one.
He thought he’d gotten the right girl.
I had to move.
I had to think.
Yusef was sobbing against me, his whole body shaking, asking why, why, why in this broken little voice that shattered what was left of my heart.
If I called the police, they’d investigate. My name would be in the reports. He would see the news, realize he’d killed the wrong twin, and come back to finish the job. He’d kill me. He’d probably kill Yusef too, just for being a witness.
If I ran as myself, Meech’s family could fight for custody of Yusef. I had a criminal record—petty theft from my early California days, stupid desperate shit I’d done to keep us fed when we first got kicked out. Zahara was clean. Zahara had a GED, was enrolled in college, had never been arrested. If it came down to a custody battle, I’d lose. No judge was going to give a kid to a woman with theft charges and no education over the biological father’s family, even if that father was locked up. Or worse, he could end up in the system.
But if I was Zahara…
The thought was horrific. Monstrous. Absolutely insane.
But it was also the only option that kept Yusef safe and that killer off my trail.
I looked at my sister’s body. At her face that was identical to mine. At the ID that was sitting in her purse by the door—Zahara Ali, California driver’s license, the key to a whole new identity.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I’m so sorry, Z. But I have to protect him. I have to protect your son.”
I took her ID. Left mine inside her bag.
When the police found her, they’d identify her as Zainab Ali. The witness. The girl from the gambling club. Case closed.
And I would become Zahara. The surviving twin. Yusef’s mother.
I grabbed Yusef’s hand—he was in shock, barely responsive, letting me lead him like a zombie—and we walked out of that apartment.
I didn’t look back.
I couldn’t.
We took a Greyhound to Texas.Then another to Georgia. Then another to DC, because it was far enough from California to feel safe and big enough to disappear in. I stayed in each of those cities a few months at a time.
I became Zahara Ali. Memorized her social security number and her entire history. Practiced signing her name until it felt natural. Taught Yusef to call me Mama instead of Auntie, and he was young enough—traumatized enough—that eventually he stopped slipping. Most of the time.
I got a job at a diner called Grits. Found a cheap apartment in Southeast. Enrolled Yusef in school under my—under Zahara’s—name.
