Lib Novel Page 81
Mora’s phone went off, and she went to the far corner of the room to take the call. Sayeda finished chopping the fish, washed her hands, and skimmed the label on a jar of Brazilian red palm oil. Despite all the dishes she’d made so far, it would be her first time using the ingredient, wanting the taste to feel as “home” for Adrían as possible.
While she read, she walked over to where her mother had left her purse, peered inside, and glanced over her shoulder.
Mora was facing the windows.
She searched as quickly as she could, spotted the book of stamps, removed them, and hid them in her dress. Then, she continued her search.
“Sayeda, the chewing gum is the front pocket,” Mora called. “Are you sure your stomach’s not upset because you’re pregnant?”
“It’s upset because I am.” She reached into the front pocket, pulled out a stick, removed the wrapper, and slipped the gum into her mouth. “Mora, you know I get nauseous when I’m flustered.”
“It’s your atrophic gastritis.”
Sayeda bit down on the gum, took several calming breaths, and returned to the counter.
“I’ll send your prescription now that I know it’s acting up,” Mora said, reclaiming the spot beside her. “Sayeda, what if Novi’s here to take you home?”
Everything inside her momentarily stopped moving, flowing, and beating. “Home?”
“I can have him escort you to a safe location. No one knows your real name, anyhow. It was never listed in the documents that were leaked. There’ll be no more aliases, and I know how much you love the name.”
Her father had named her. There was even a rumor that he had another child, another girl, but her mother always said those rumors were lies blacker than soot, which was ironic. Atlas knew her name, and there had to be a reason for that: Mora was lying about her name being leaked, as well as Novi taking her home.
“I can go home?” she asked.
“Yes, honey. So, what do you say?”
“Get out.”
“Honey—”
She spun around, the knife back in her hand, although she couldn’t recall when she’d picked it up. “Get…out. And don’t you dare call me honey. I’m on to you, Mora Bentley. I don’t trust you.”
“But you trust a killer,” Mora spat.
“At least he can admit what he is.”
Her mother snatched up her purse, nostrils flaring. “Turning your back on your mother for a man? History has shown, time after time, that a decision like that is always a mistake.”
“Maybe in the case of mothers and daughters,” she shot back. “That’s not what we are.”
“Do you know what I risk to keep you safe?”
“If it’s that much, maybe you should let me be killed.”
Mora gasped.
Then, she stormed out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, a door slammed.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Spring 2011
Zahrat Al Jibal
Morocco