Page 25 of Veil of Death and Shadow

I’d grown so used to her nosy presence that I found myself often looking forward to her visits.

“I’m Mareena,” I said to her friend. “Do you live in the area?”

“Greta,” she responded, the name almost like a bark in her wispy voice. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mareena.”

I glanced at Claudine. “Good, I hope.”

“Of course, dear,” Claudine said, her thin-lipped grin wide and warm.

“You sure I can’t get you anything?”

“We’re just here for the company if that’s all right?” Greta asked. “Good company is hard to come by these days.”

“Of course. I’ll be behind the counter if you need anything.”

I left them to their whispered chatter, glancing over occasionally whenever one woman would lean in and the other would let out a loud, resounding cackle.

There was something so incredibly normal about the interaction—like a window into the past, of what old age was meant to be—that I could almost forget the chaos of the last few years.

I dipped my pinky into the tepid pot of milk, holding it there as I counted, waiting for the moment when the lick of heat would be too much, as Amto Amani had taught me—but after ten seconds, it didn’t come.

Perfect.

I spooned in the yogurt starter from last week’s batch, before covering the pot and wrapping it in linens. The laban would incubate until tomorrow.

When I reached for the knife, ready to finish chopping the herbs for my tabbouleh, the door flew open.

I froze.

A tall, lean man with dark wavy hair set a bag of things down in the booth nearest the door, his back to me as he shrugged out of his backpack.

My body forgot how to move, as I held my breath, waiting for him to turn around.

It had been years without a word and?—

When he did look back, unfamiliar brown eyes met mine, lips that were too thin, skin a shade or two off, a nose too straight.

The knots in my stomach unwound.

Two strangers in one day, that was quite rare for Frank’s.

I exhaled, my muscles releasing whatever they’d been holding—anticipation, relief, disappointment. I honestly couldn't be sure.

Mustering a smile as best as I could, I moved towards the man, only to notice the counter was smeared with dark red.

“Shit,” I hissed, dropping the knife into the sink.

“Oh dear,” the woman, Greta, sat up straighter, studying me.

“Sorry, it’s fine.” I turned to the man. “I’ll be right with you. Just give me a sec.”

When I glanced back around, Greta was only a foot or two away from me. She was remarkably quiet and agile for her age.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the cut, then the knife.

“Blade was sharp,” she said, nodding, “that’s good. Rinse it off and use some mild soap if you have it. Doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches. Probably just pressure for a few minutes and a solid Band-Aid.”

I did as she said, applying pressure with a clean rag. “Thanks.”

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