Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
J asmine left the house with Amir and Riad flanking her. She no longer had access to the property, and they’d changed the alarm code. Amir might still need her, but his cousin’s words had hit home.
If anyone was playing mind games, it was Riad. He knew exactly which buttons to press to feed Amir’s paranoia. She wished he’d wipe that smug look off his face.
“We have business to attend to,” Amir said abruptly, as they walked toward Columbia Heights Station. “I’ll let you know when we’re back.”
“Okay. I’ll be at the library.”
She hadn’t spent this much time in a library since she was in grad school, cramming for her psych exams. Now, it had become a refuge—a neutral, safe space where she could breathe. She used the time to stay up to date on new theories and practices in her field, but mostly, it was an excuse. A way to be alone. She also used the library’s computers to check emails, responding just enough to keep her colleagues from suspecting she’d dropped off the face of the earth.
Even though that’s exactly what it felt like.
Had it really been only two weeks since Amir had shown up at her door?
Two weeks since her life had been ripped apart.
This was her new reality—hiding in plain sight. A visit to the library, a stop at a coffee shop where she could write in her notebook, a grocery run, then waiting for Amir to return. Or, as it was now, waiting for permission to go home.
“Jasmine? Jasmine, is that you?”
She froze at the sound of the familiar voice.
A middle-aged woman was crossing the street, hands full of grocery bags.
Instinct kicked in. Jasmine pulled her scarf up, lowered her gaze, and looped her arm through Amir’s. The woman hesitated, brow furrowing. Then she muttered, “Sorry,” and hurried away.
“Who was that?” Amir asked, his voice tight.
“A woman from my practice,” she said lightly.
He grunted, and she let go of his arm.
No one could know she was here.
Her colleagues thought she was on leave, grieving her husband. Her son thought she was away on a work trip. If anyone found out the truth—that she was trapped in the home of an internationally wanted terrorist—her life would be over.
The authorities would interrogate her.
Her practice would be destroyed.
Her clients would leave.
Ryan would be in even more danger.
No, it was in everyone’s best interest that she remained invisible. Hence the scarf. It was more than just a disguise. It changed how people perceived her, changed their assumptions. It kept her safe.
“Behave yourself,” Amir warned as they reached the station entrance. His tone was light, but there was an edge to it. Riad’s sharp gaze pinned her in place.
“I will. See you later,” she replied evenly.
Only once they’d disappeared did she release a shuddering sigh. That was too close. If Margaret had recognized her . . .
The fresh air steadied her as she strolled toward the library. There was no need to rush—Amir’s “business” usually took at least an hour.
Was he meeting contacts? Coordinating an attack?
She shivered with foreboding. His meetings were becoming more frequent, almost daily now. Whatever they were planning, the deadline was approaching.
If she knew where or when the attack was happening, would she risk everything to stop it? Would she put Ryan’s life on the line?
She swallowed hard.
No.
As much as she wanted to do the right thing, she knew she couldn’t. Her son came first.
Besides, she didn’t know what they were planning. Not really.
The library was blissfully quiet, a cool escape from the noise outside. The Columbia Heights area had changed a lot in the last decade, with new businesses and high-rise apartments cropping up, but it was still grittier than the quiet, middle-class neighborhood where she’d lived with Adam.
She returned a book she’d read the night before and checked out another. Cognitive behavioral therapy for PTSD. A subject she believed in, now more than ever.
After sending a quick email to Ryan, she left for the nearby coffee shop.
The barista, Tony, was already smiling when she walked in. He was a psych student, taking online classes, and they’d struck up an easy rapport on her first day here. He’d seen her library books and asked if she was a practicing therapist.
He hadn’t minded keeping her secret notebook and burner phone behind the counter. Hadn’t even asked her why. He even kept the phone charged for her.
“Morning, Jasmine. The usual?”
“Yes, please, Tony.”
She scanned the café as he made her drink. The first few days, Amir had her followed, but the men he’d sent were amateurs. She’d spotted them instantly.
Trust was something you had to build. Even though Amir had Ryan as leverage, she needed to convince him she wasn’t a threat. That she could be trusted.
It was the only way to survive.
Tony brought over her coffee and handed her the small paper bag containing her notebook and phone. “Working today?”
A friendly smile. “Always.”
She opened the notebook, flipping to the most recent entry. It contained pages of detailed notes on Amir—his behavior, his reactions, his night terrors. The moments of lucidity. The flickers of doubt. Clinically, he was a fascinating case study.
Personally, it was a means of control.
A way to detach. To pretend, even for a moment, that he was just another patient, and she was just his therapist. But he could never find out. If Amir knew she was documenting him, if he even suspected, she didn’t want to think about what he might do.
She took a sip of coffee and started writing. She was halfway through her notes when the door to the coffee shop opened, and a shadow fell across her table.
She glanced up—and her heart skipped a beat.
Him.
“Hello, Jasmine,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite. “Mind if I join you?”