Aches wove through her neck, and Kasra blinked open her eyes, realizing she had somehow fallen asleep. With a groan, she lifted her head, only then realizing her forehead was against something firm. A bolt shot through her belly when she realized that something firm was Rage’s bicep. Mortified, she pulled upright and faced the front.
Wiping his face, he eased his seat up.
Mercies, he had been awake! Knew she fell asleep on his arm. “I am sorry.”
He started the car without a word.
“I thought … the car—we were to go to foot.”
“Town’s nearby.”
Silently, he negotiated the car back onto the road, and they got up to speed. Less than ten minutes later, they pulled into a good-sized town with a market. He parked among a jostle of cars. “You have that money Coman gave you?”
Kasra eyed him.
“Buy some water. Maybe some falafel,” he said with a shrug. “Meet me near that mosque”—he pointed up through the windshield to the blue mosque towering over the dilapidated structures—“in twenty minutes.”
Surprised at his plan, she paused. “You trust me—to split up?”
Even though bloodshot, his eyes were startling blue in the morning light. “If you have better options, take them.”
“Do you really hate me so very much?”
He traded the baseball cap for the turban again and grabbed the door handle. “Twenty minutes. The mosque.” He nodded. “Go.”
Nervous, she climbed out. Tucked the satchel over her shoulder and headed toward the stands. She used the flip-phone Gabina had given her and texted her:Safe. Thank you again.Pocketing the phone, she bought two bottled waters. Then mangos.
As she put them in her satchel, she spotted a falafel vendor. Though sure he was joking about the falafel, she thought a peace offering could not hurt and bought a small box. As she finished paying, the vendor’s wife said a pretty hijab matched Kasra’s eyes. The fuss she made was so odd—she was used to everyone avoiding her. Treating like she was a contagion. Feeling awkward as the woman draped it over the one Kasra already wore, raving about how wonderful it looked, Kasra cringed at the attention.
Embarrassed over the woman’s loud, jovial demeanor, she glanced around, worried others were watching. She froze when she spotted Rage, two stalls down, talking on a phone. His eyes were piercing yet … appreciative.
No, not from him.
The woman fussed and laughed. Clapped.
Desperate to be free of the woman, Kasra bought the hijab and scurried away. As she crossed the street, heading toward Rage, she noticed the green truck with lights. Afghan police.
Sucking in a breath, she adjusted her hijab. Tucked her chin. Hurried in the direction of the mosque, which—thank Allah—was the other way. She tucked the box in her satchel, and hurried down the street, keeping her head down and face covered.
She made it to the mosque without issue, though she did note two men scowling at her from a small shop across the street. Nerves rattling, she scanned for Rage. Up one street, down another. Where was he? She looked at the phone’s clock. Okay, she was early. He would be here, right?
Her heart jarred in her chest. What if he had left her here? On her own?
To punish her because he hated her. Hated what she had done.
No. He would not do that. He had character. Honor. Even Coman saw it. So, he would come.
A third man joined the first two at the shop, all watching her.
She should not stay in one place too long. Kasra turned and walked around the fenced perimeter, praying Rage would think to look on all sides. Rounding one side, she found shade. Slowed, glad for the reprieve from the heat and the men’s disapproving looks. She turned right, along the back side of the mosque, and faltered when an Afghan truck glided past.
Was it the same one? Heart in her throat, she searched for a place to hide—wait. Twenty minutes. She checked her phone. And stilled. It’d been twenty-two minutes. He was late.
He left me.
No. No no no. He would not. He wanted the name.
She had not proven her worth. Convinced him of the benefit in keeping her alive.
