This man was going to be the death of me.
Not literally—at least I hoped not literally—but emotionally? Spiritually? This man, with his complicated layers and his fierce protectiveness and his refusal to let a child suffer for an adult’s mistakes? He was destroying me in the best and worst ways possible.
I turned my face toward the window and blinked back the tears I refused to let fall. The Appalachian Maryland landscape passed by in a blur of gray skies and bare trees, everything dead and dormant, waiting for a spring that felt impossibly far away.
Kind of like my life right now.
The silence stretched on. Mile after mile of nothing but the hum of the engine and the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on all of us.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Let me explain.”
My voice came out hoarse and rough, not at all like the confident, put-together woman I’d been pretending to be. But Iguess that was fitting, since that woman had never really existed in the first place.
Prime’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. I saw the muscle in his jaw tick once, twice. But he didn’t shut me down. Didn’t tell me to save it, didn’t pull the car over and demand I get out, didn’t do any of the things I’d been bracing myself for.
He just waited.
And somehow, that was worse than anything he could’ve said.
Because now I actually had to do this. Had to figure out how to explain two years of lies, a lifetime of trauma, and a sister whose identity I’d stolen—all while my twelve-year-old nephew sat in the backseat, listening to every word.
No pressure or anything.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to gather my thoughts into something coherent. Where did I even start? The beginning? The end? The middle where everything went to hell?
“My name is Zainab Denise Ali,” I finally said, and the words felt like broken glass in my throat. “Zahara was my twin sister. My identical twin.”
I paused, staring out the windshield at the endless stretch of highway.
“And she’sdead because of me.”
2
ZAINAB
TWELVE YEARS EARLIER—BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
“Girl, hurry UP.”
Zahara was already three steps ahead of me, her sneakers slapping against the pavement as we practically sprinted toward the bus stop. The number 22 was scheduled to arrive in four minutes, and if we missed it, we were dead. Not figuratively. Literally. Our father would kill us, bury us in the backyard, and tell everyone we’d run away.
I was struggling to keep up because my eyes were blurry with tears I refused to let fall. Not yet. Not until I was somewhere safe. Somewhere Stephon’s stupid, handsome, pressure-applying face couldn’t find me.
“Zainab, I swear to God, if we miss this bus?—”
“I’m coming!” I wiped my face with the back of my hand and forced my legs to move faster.
We made it to the stop just as the bus rounded the corner, wheezing to a halt with that familiar hiss of the doors opening. Zahara grabbed my hand and pulled me up the steps, swiping her bus pass and then mine while I stood there like a zombie, barely functioning.
The bus was mostly empty—a few older women with shopping bags, a guy in the back with headphones so loud I could hear the bass from here, a tired-looking mother with a toddler on her lap. We slid into a seat near the middle, and Zahara immediately turned to face me.
“Okay.” She pulled our hijabs and niqabs out of her bag—the ones we’d stuffed in there four hours ago when we’d met the boys at the mall. “Let me fix your face before you get us both killed.”
I sat still while she worked, draping the fabric over my head and tucking it around my face with practiced fingers. We’d been doing this for months now—sneaking out to see Stephon and Meech, pretending to be good Muslim girls while we lived double lives. It was exhausting. Exhilarating. Terrifying.
And now, apparently, over. At least for me.
