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Two

The cold gripping my heart tightens. I'm at my father's door now, afraid to go in even though I have to see inside this room. To be safe though, I pause to make sure Papa isn't coming up. He isn't.

His door isn’t locked; I spill inside, reach for the light, but change my mind. I wouldn't be able to hide if he decided to come up.

I creep forward, heading straight for the documents on his nightstand. I thumb through the papers, shaking. Sweat, like a lone tear, runs down my cheek.

There are several useless documents—electricity bills, bank statements, confirmation of settled tuition fees—not what I'm looking for.

A sound in the hallway stalls my heart, I almost jump out of my skin and search for habitation.

He's coming.

Papa's coming.

He can't find me here.

The footsteps are getting louder. Heavier. Closer.

I stop breathing.

A shadow stops at the door, hesitant. I squint, but can't see properly. My chest is heaving, my sweat clings my pyjamas to my body as tight as the echidnophaga gallinacean does to poultry.

The person stands for three agonising seconds then moves on.

Oh. It's Daniel, my twin. I can smell him now.

Not Papa.

No Papa. Phew.

I'm faster now, pawing at the files; aha, at last, something useful. Yesterday’s mail.

Papa seemed more grumpy than usual. He looked uneasy. When I passed his chair on my way to the kitchen after dinner, I saw my name and Papa's but not Daniel's or Mama's.

I had to find out what he was hiding.

A brownish folder catches my eye, and I open it. My heartbeat slows. I pull out the papers.

There it is. The one piece of paper no Muslim girl ever expects to see.

Surprise strips my ability to think.

I'm the sole beneficiary to my father's estate.

A foul taste comes into my mouth. Why me? Why now?

My father has always been clear. Daniel would get eighty-percent of his estate. Mama would walk away with fifteen, Aunt Duhab—my father's sister—and I would share the remaining five.

What's changed?

"Daniel?" Papa's voice. "Daniel?"

His voice is close. My heart kicks up.

In the hallway, footsteps echo again. Determined, speeding towards me.

No. He's coming.

I jump, panicked, the papers spill on the bed.

Shit. Papa shouldn't find me here.

I scoop everything up messily, fold things back in place. I'm unsuccessful. The folders fly around me again, onto the floor.

Then the door opens

Daniel grins. "Clara ... naughty, Clara."

He's standing in the middle of the bedroom door, arms apart, feet hugging each other.

Christ Jesus on the Cross.

He's three shades lighter than me. A yellow bone. I look like my father, so black you'd swear I was born living directly in the sun.

I stare, helpless, and mortified.

He frowns, angry commas at the center of his forehead. Daniel studies me. And frowns.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask him.

His frown only deepens. "Saving your ass. What's your excuse?"

I squirm.

He laughs. His body rocks with it, and he throws back his head and a lone tear swims down his cheek.

"Daniel?" Papa calls.

We both jump.

I step towards Daniel. He stops me with his hand, feeding my face his palm.

He eyes scan past my feet, to the edge of the bed.

I follow his movement. A small piece of paper, a business card perhaps, must have fallen from Papa's stack of folders

I scoop it up, pocket it, and step out of the bedroom, shutting his door. My heart rebounds off my ribs.

Daniel follows quietly to my bedroom. The second we're inside, he shuts the door.

"I should get ready for school," I say but head straight for the bed. My covers have gone cold.

"Don't fuck with me," he says with a straight face. "You were snooping. I wanna know why."

I pretend to frown. "Dude, don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe you will, when Papa questions you."

A threat. But Daniel wouldn't rat on me ... or would he?

He waits for me to reply, and when I don't, he gives me a stunned look before his gaze drops to my pocket, where the small piece of paper with Mama's name is.

I put my hand over it. He looks towards the wall in the direction of Papa's voice.

"I, uh, I hope you know what you're doing,” he says.

I know what he's not saying, what he really wants to say. This will end badly.

Of course, Papa will find out. Of course, he'll make me dance with the dead.

"So you won't tell?" I ask, daring to believe it.

"Sure. Whatever." He sounds genuine. "It's about Mama, isn't?"

My chest constricts. I nod once.

"Dammit, Clara, let it go."

My stomach clenches at his tone of voice.

When I don't answer, Daniel strengthens up, on the move again, and pulls the door open.

His gaze sweeps over my face, and whatever he sees makes him close his eyes and shake his head.

Pity.

It's unnerving. The way he looks at me now; brow creased, lips apart. As if I'm the stupidest person he's ever met.

"Um, be careful." His voice is soft. Worried.

I glance away, towards the wall. I wish he'd stop looking at me.

An awkward silence follows before he heads back toward the kitchen.

The second he's gone I feast my eyes on the paper. It has five names. Ahd, Gary, Julius, Agnes, Clara.

Ahd and Agnes are missing.

Gary and Julius are dead.

The mystery caller said I’m next. Did my father have something to do with Gary's death? His killer was never found. Someone tampered with Gray's car brakes. Papa knows all about dismantling a car.

Julius drowned. His death wouldn't raise my eyebrows otherwise but Julius was a professional swimmer. Travelled the world. Won medals. Two weeks after his body was washed ashore when I used my father's laptop Papa's recent Google search was: how long does it take for a dead body to float? He was just doing research for his WIP: or at least that's what he says.

Mama and her best friend, Agnes disappeared the same week. And now ... And now me.

What is Papa planning?

I need to be one step ahead.

I hear movements through the open crack of my bedroom door. Quickly, I hide the paper under my pillow.

I sleep in the box downstairs near the kitchen. The door is always half open. Papa insists. 'Insist' being the operative word here.

My father pounds his fist on the door three times and pokes his wrinkled face through it. He has twice the neck of a normal person. He's tall too, at six feet nine inches he sometimes has to bow his head in order to get inside a room.

"Kadré, are you awake?"

My dad doesn't call me by my first name, Clara. The name reminds him of Mama and it's Christian. He thinks this isn't a real religion.

"Yes, Papa, I just need to take a quick shower."

"C'mon, kid, it’s getting late. I still have to drop ..."

He fumes now. It's so sudden that my head spins. "Is that lipstick, Kadre?"

"No Papa." I'm pole still. The pulse behind my ears pounds.

He's near the bed now. He snatches my chin with his fingers while running the sleeve of his white shirt over my lips. He's pressing so hard that tears sting my cheeks.

"It's the berries I ate last night," I say, desperate.

"Oh," he says, letting go after double-checking there's no lipstick stain on his sleeve. "Why do you make me so angry?"

"Sorry, Papa."

"I love you," he reminds me.

"Thank you, Papa," I say.

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