Chapter 10
Saal
I found out like the rest of the world did—through a headline that cracked something inside me.
SALMA KABIR ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH MUSA SULEIMAN'S MURDER
I didn't blink. Not at first. Maybe my brain refused to register the words. I just sat there, the cold blue light of the screen casting shadows on my face, waiting for the article to vanish, for the headline to change, for something—anything—to make it untrue.
But it didn't vanish.
It didn't change.
It was real.
The image embedded in the article stayed frozen, like my breath. She was in handcuffs. Salma. The woman who used to iron my school uniforms and scold me for forgetting to pray. The woman who said I reminded her of him.
And there it was—his name.
My father's name.
Musa Suleiman.
Bold. Permanent. Followed by one word that didn't belong there.
Murder.
My phone slipped from my hand and landed face-down on the table with a dull thud. I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and pressed my palms into my eyes like I could grind the truth out of existence. But it didn't go.
It sank in.
It grew roots.
It spread like rot.
The house was too still. No wind, no sound. Just that vacuum of silence that follows earthquakes. I stood and paced, barefoot on tiled floors that once held her perfume and presence. My home suddenly felt unfamiliar. Even the photos on the shelf felt like betrayal—frames of black-and-gold smiles and lies.
There was one picture, in particular, I couldn't stop staring at. Her hands on my shoulders. My teenage smile—crooked and naive. I remembered that day. The flash of the camera. The way she leaned close and whispered, "You're my legacy now."
I smiled back.
Like a fool.
Like a son.
––
I drove to the senator's house before I could think myself out of it. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel the whole way.
He came back late, smelling of policy meetings and diplomacy. A staff member hovered behind him like a ghost but slipped away as soon as he saw my expression.
"You knew," I said. No greeting. No buildup. Just fire.
He froze, mid-motion, cap in hand.
"Don't lie. Not to me. Not today."
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak immediately. That told me enough.
"How long?" I stepped toward him. My voice wasn't loud—it was low. Controlled. Dangerous. "How long have you known she killed him?"
He exhaled, slow and measured. A politician's breath. A man rehearsing grief.
"There were suspicions," he said eventually. "Nothing concrete. No evidence. Just… noise. Until now."
I laughed. It came out harsh. Hollow.
"So you let her stay," I said. "You let her raise me."
"I didn't know you'd become her son."
"She made me her son."
He didn't answer.
Didn't deny it.
Didn't apologize.
He just turned and walked up the stairs like he could outrun the past. Like guilt wasn't already stitched into his spine, making his back stiff, his steps measured.
I stood in that polished marble foyer surrounded by art and politics and wondered how long the walls had known the truth.
Because they must've known.
Everyone must've known.
Except me.
––
I remembered the funeral.
I remembered the weight of the casket. How many men it took to carry it.
My father's casket.
Salma wore black silk. Her scarf was pinned with pearls. Her face was dry. Serene. Unshaken.
"She's strong," people said.
"She loved him deeply."
I was fifteen.
I believed them.
I remembered crying during the final rites. My whole body shook, but she didn't hug me. She just rested a hand on my shoulder and whispered:
"You're safe now. I'll protect you."
Lies.
Beautiful, curated lies.
She didn't love him.
She didn't love me.
She loved power.
Proximity.
And I—God help me—I gave it to her. I gave her my trust. My loyalty. My name. I carried her like a badge.
––
I called the lawyer.
I didn't wait for pleasantries.
I didn't care about tone.
I said, "I want everything. Every report. Every file. Every charge."
He tried to soften it. I told him to stop.
And then I heard the word. The one that shattered everything left inside me.
Cyanide.
One dose. In his coffee. His routine. She timed it perfectly—after an argument, when he was alone. No witnesses. She washed the mug. Wiped the counters.
Told the doctors about a family history of heart conditions.
The autopsy said cardiac arrest.
Everyone accepted it.
She buried him with tears that never came.
Then she married a senator and raised the son of the man she murdered.
––
That night, I sat on the floor of my bedroom.
No lights. Just darkness pressing in on all sides. I didn't cry. I didn't yell. There was nothing left to purge. Just the humming ache of a truth I couldn't unhear.
My phone buzzed.
Ibtisam.
Are you okay?
I stared at it for a long time. Typed:
No.
Deleted it.
Typed again:
I will be.
Sent.
She didn't need to carry this. Not yet.
She was just starting to learn how to hold herself together again. I wouldn't be the one to make her shatter.
But me?
I didn't have that luxury.
I had a legacy to
unmake.
Salma was gone.
But her empire wasn't.
Not yet.
And I would make sure it burned—
Even if I had to light the match with my bare hands.