Page 42 of Good As Hell

“We found him.” She smiles at me.

“You have?” I all but squeal at her words.

“If you will come with me. I can introduce you to Zayn.” She says over her shoulder, beckoning me to follow her.

“His parents?” I ask speeding up to follow her quickened pace as Indigo and Fi fall in behind me.

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un,” my heart sinks as she says the words of condolence — “We belong to Allah and to Him we shall return.”

“Does he have any family?” She shakes her head as we enter the building that houses families in transition.

“They were all lost.” Opening the door for us, she allows us to enter a small room where a little boy who can’t be more than three plays quietly on the floor with puzzles.

“Zayn,” Indigo translates as she calls over to him. “Someone very special would like to meet you.”

My kaftan pools around me as I get on the little boy’s level to greet him.

His little smile is warm as he says, “As-salamu ?Alaykum,,” in a still baby like way.

He giggles at my response. I spend the next few moments getting acquainted with Zayn, playing with puzzles. He’s thoughtful in helping me place the pieces and so clever with figuring them out. He even laughed at my corny antics.

“I think Ayaan would love him.” I tell Fi and Indigo after we settle into the car and head back to the palace.

“Um..” Fi casts a worried look at the driver. The partition is down. Pressing the button to raise it I sign, “What?”

“Other than, I know like hell you ain’t thinking of bringing that baby into that mess of a palace?” Her eyes round like she knows I’ve lost all sense.

“He doesn’t have a family.” I shrug.

“And you think that bringing him into this situation is what’s best? I know you love Josephine Baker, but you sound reallyridiculous right now” she shakes her head in stiff disapproval. “No ma’am, Hassan is not even speaking to you.”

“And why is that Fi?” I charge, feeling like she’s attacking me.

“I was trying to help us out of this situation.” Crossing her arms, she turns away.

“I know that, and I’m willing to take those consequences. It’s just —” My words choke.

“You’re the one suffering.” She tries to finish, but I’m already shaking my head.

“No. I just can’t be so bogged down in what I’m going through that I forget about other people and that little baby doesn’t have anyone. We both know what that’s like — at least until we found each other.” I hear a sniff and for realize Indigo’s been here the entire time witnessing our fight and subsequent make up. If she’s the mole, it’ll be all over the blogs, but knowing she’s had access to way worse information about me like walking in on me sobbing my eyes out after hearing that Hassan had taken Ayaan for the day without even greeting me that never leaked reassures me she can be trusted.

“Sorry Mistress, I love the way you two love each other. Such good sisters.” Her eyes are wet with tears.

I’m second from drawing her in for a hug when there’s a loud screech, then a boom. Our car rattles like a tin can, then starts careening down the hill the SUV and the caravan of security vehicles ahead and behind us are traveling.

“Argh,” we crying in unison all of us clinging together as the driver loses control then tries to right us, making a sharp turn in the opposite direction only for another boom and screech to hit us sending us sailing over the edge of the hill.

We’d been told to wear our seatbelts, no exceptions. We complied because one thing having a child brings into context is the brevity of life and the chances you are willing to take beforeyou become a parent seem selfish at best once you hold the life of a little child and all their hope for the future in your hands.

Still, the seat belt does nothing against the jarring viciousness of the turbulence we experience until the vehicle comes to a pitiful stop at the bottom.

“Fi, Indigo?” Disoriented, I look around at my companions. Both are unconscious. Indigo’s beautiful face has a vicious slash going down the side of it. Blinking, I feel wet stickiness sliding down my nose. Reaching up to wipe it away, I smell the copper scent of my blood even before I bring my fingers into my line of sight.

Looking to the left, I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain stabbing at my forehead. Blindly reaching up, I feel for the cause. “Ow.” Jerking back my hand, I see where I’ve cut my fingers. I have a shard of glass sticking out of my forehead. I grab the scarf I’d been wearing and use it to pull the shard free.

Blood pours from my head before I can staunch it. “Ugh,” I moan in pain, pressing the wadded silk against my forehead. Holding it steady with trembling hands, I wrap the scarf tightly around my head. I hope that will stop the flow.

Now, I turn again. “Fi.” I scream, seeing my friend slumped over against the door. There is blood residue beside her head on the tempered glass.

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