Page 63 of A Life Betrayed

“Nothing ever is.”

Of course Rayan knew that. “Come here.”

Rayan stepped into his arms, and Mathias pulled him close. He brought his mouth to Rayan’s and felt the whir in his head cease as he kissed him—soft, slow, impossibly warm. Mathias brushed his fingers against the man’s cheek, and Rayan leaned into the touch.

“What made you change your mind about leaving?” Rayan asked.

Mathias stared down at him. That uncurbed softness had the power to bend him. “You can’t stay here, Rayan,” he said finally, no longer able to deny the truth. “And I can’t stay without you.”

Something imperceptible flickered in Rayan’s eyes, then he dropped his head and pressed his face into Mathias’s neck. “You know I love you,” he said, his voice a fierce whisper.

The words were hard enough to hear and even more impossible to say. They revealed a missing part of Mathias’s programming, a language never used that had long been forgotten.

“I know,” Mathias said.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

When Mathias had returned to the safe house the previous evening, Rayan had been moments from coming clean about his conversation with Allen. It couldn’t stay buried between them, despite Rayan’s growing dread of how Mathias would react when he found out. But before he could tell him, Mathias had revealed his intention to leave, and Rayan knew if he brought it up then, it would destroy any chance of getting the man out of Montreal. Perhaps if he waited until they were out of the country, he would be able to convince Mathias of his reasoning.

Even as he thought it, Rayan cringed at his own naivety. He was thinking like a philosophy student. Mathias didn’t give a shit about a well-reasoned argument. He viewed loyalty in absolutes—you were either friend or foe, with him or against him. Philosophical arguments might be even-tempered. Mathias was not.

The simple fact remained: Rayan had made his decision, and he had to be willing to live with the fallout. While he couldn’t bear to lose what they had—and he continued to blindly tell himself it wouldn’t come to that—the prospect of losing Mathias entirely to prison—or worse—was unthinkable. If he wanted to keep Mathias safe long enough to get him out, Rayan would have to keep his mouth shut.

In the end, there wasn’t much for Rayan to prepare. He was already living out of a duffel bag, having returned once again to a transient life. There were parallels, to be sure. He felt a familiar unsteadiness, the same way his abrupt exit from Toronto had kicked up dust from the past. But this was different. This time, he wasn’t going alone.

Nothing in his old apartment was worth going back for. Mathias had assured him everything else could be settled after they’d left, lest they risk setting off any surveillance alarm bells. Despite his initial reluctance, Mathias was curiously prepared when it came to the logistics of disappearing. Then again, it made sense that Mathias—who never left anything to chance—would have a contingency plan. He was unsentimental that way—things were things, money was money, people were people. Rayan secretly counted himself as the exception to that last rule.

One thing remained unresolved. It had started as a wisp of an idea and was launched fully into being by Mathias’s words the night Rayan had seen his life condensed into a bleak stack of paperwork. The man’s assertion had rung true—Rayan had always been a passive participant in the events of his past, thrown quickly into their paralyzing grip and allowing the guilt and shame to control him. He couldn’t put right past wrongs, but he could decide how to confront them.

Mathias had stayed over, and Rayan lay in bed, listening to him in the shower while the morning sunlight broke through the gaps in the window blinds. Mathias emerged from the bathroom with an air of grim determination that followed him out to the living room, where he plucked his jacket from the back of the sofa and shrugged it on. Rayan met him at the door as he was pulling on his coat. He brought a hand to Mathias’s chin and lowered his face to kiss him. Only then did some of the stiffness leave the man’s shoulders.

He held Rayan close for a moment, exhaling into his neck, and then released him. “There are things to take care of. I’ll be in touch.”

After Mathias left, Rayan looked up the hospital he’d seen named in his mother’s coroner’s report and called the patient records department. He was directed through a series of bureaucratic gatekeepers only to be told that none of the records from the time of her death had been digitalized. Short of submitting an official information request to access a storeroom of archived medical files, there was no way of determining exactly where she’d ended up. As for his brother, Rayan was given a number and told the section of the cemetery in Laval where he’d been buried in a pauper’s grave.

Resolute, Rayan decided to take his chances and venture from the safe house despite the risk. When he got to the cemetery, he walked through the rows of small wooden markers until he came upon the one bearing his brother’s number. He stood there for a long time, looking down at the grass-covered section of dirt as though it would somehow translate to repentance. It pained him to think his brother had ended up here, nameless and forgotten.

Instead of heading back, Rayan caught a bus and rode it east across the suburb. The Islamic Cemetery of Quebec was a short walk from the bus stop. He found himself rooted outside the gate, his courage deserting him.

Forgive me, Mama.

As though she had conjured him, a short, balding man appeared by the front door of the squat brick building inside the compound and began walking toward Rayan. He lifted the latch on the gate and beckoned him inside. “As-salamu alaikum.”

Rayan repeated the greeting woodenly.

“Are you here to offerdu‘a’stoday, young man?”

“No, I don’t… I’m nonpracticing.”

The man gave him a kind smile. “Son, all are welcome here. I’m Imam Amir. What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to see the plots.”

The imam nodded. “Are they coming from a facility? We can help make the arrangements.”

“They’re already gone. But I wanted something…” He wasn’t sure what he wanted—just not a number on a wooden marker.

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