Chapter 15: Threads of Doubt
Layla's hands trembled as she stared at the text on her phone—"The ledger is just the beginning"—its words a chilling echo of the USB's revelations, the note "Trust no one" , and the voicemail "You're too close" . The protests outside, fueled by Omar's leaked audit findings, roared with chants of "Step down!" while Amina's discovery of Sana's burner phone logs in the abandoned shop loomed large. Idris's admission about Malik's threats gnawed at her, and her father's meeting with the elders tightened the knot of dread.
Layla knelt on her prayer mat, the dawn light faint through her window, and whispered a dua: "Ya Allah, shield me from deception. Guide me through this fire."
The neighborhood buzzed with tension—vendors hauling crates of halal meat, their shouts sharp against the protest drums; kids dodging through alleys, their laughter strained; the Fajr prayer call fading into the clatter of shop shutters. But the text turned every shadow into a threat, every glance a spy. Layla couldn't wait for Idris's promised confrontation with Malik or let Omar's rally destroy the center. She texted Amina, attaching a screenshot of the text: Got this last night. Can Tariq trace it? Café, 9 AM?
Amina replied instantly: That's terrifying, Layla. Tariq's on it—we'll be there.
Layla then texted Idris: Malik and Sana—I need the truth. Masjid fundraiser, 3 PM? Sister Halima can chaperone.
His response was quick: Assalamu alaikum, Layla. 3 PM works. I'll tell you everything.
The community café was a morning refuge, its wooden tables crowded with students on laptops, aunties sipping chai, the air thick with cardamom and fresh bread. Layla sat in a corner booth, her maroon hijab catching the light, the text looping in her mind. Amina and Tariq arrived, Tariq's laptop open, his hoodie loose.
"Show me the text," Amina said, voice low, eyes darting to the door.
Layla did, the words chilling even in the café's warmth. Tariq plugged in his earbuds, typing fast. "It's a burner number, but I traced the purchase—bought at a convenience store near the abandoned shop two days ago," he said, pulling up a receipt scan. "Sana's behind it, Layla. She's escalating."
Layla's heart sank, the shop's proximity—Sana's sleeping bag, burner logs —now a suffocating threat.
"She's targeting me," Layla said, voice tight. "The ledger, the text—she's working with Malik. Idris has to know more."
Amina's fingers twisted her scarf, her sketchbook untouched. "We need to go back to the shop—see what else she's hiding," she said, determination in her eyes. "But you need to press Idris hard, Layla. No more secrets."
Layla nodded, fear coiling tighter, the text a shadow over Idris's promises. She sipped her tea, its warmth grounding her, and whispered a dua: "Ya Allah, protect us."
The masjid fundraiser that afternoon was vibrant, the courtyard packed with tables selling halal baked goods, kids' crafts, and secondhand books, the air buzzing with chatter and the scent of samosas frying nearby. Sister Halima, a neighbor who'd seen Sana with the hooded man , stood by the entrance, her navy hijab bright, her presence a chaperone's comfort.
Idris arrived, his navy thobe neat, his leather bracelet glinting, but his face carried a heavy strain.
"Assalamu alaikum, Layla," he said, stepping into a quiet corner near the women's section. "I confronted Malik—he admitted something."
Layla faced him, her voice steady but urgent. "The ledger showed payments to Sana, Idris. They're working together. What did Malik say?"
Idris's jaw tightened, his fingers brushing his bracelet, a nervous tic. "Malik… he funded Sana to dig up dirt on my dad," he said, voice low. "He wants the youth center land—says it's prime for development. He thought Sana's grudge would force my dad to sell, make the 'hidden deal' look like fraud to pressure us. I didn't know the full scope, Layla—I swear. I thought Malik was just a creditor."
His words hit like a storm, the "hidden deal" now a pawn in a larger game, Malik and Sana's partnership a betrayal Idris missed.
"You should've known," Layla said, her voice trembling, eyes searching his. "Sana's been threatening me—notes, cameras, texts. You kept me in the dark, Idris."
He met her gaze, his eyes pained. "I was wrong, Layla—I wanted to shield you. I'm meeting Malik again tomorrow to stop this. Please, trust me—just a little longer."
Sister Halima signaled time to leave, and Layla nodded, her heart heavy, Idris's plea fragile against the text's threat. She whispered a dua as she walked away: "Ya Allah, show me the truth."
That evening, the protests outside the youth center swelled, the crowd spilling into the street, signs now reading "Close the Center!" Omar stood on a makeshift stage, his charcoal suit sharp, his voice booming.
"The audit proves mismanagement," he said, eyes glinting. "We need new leadership—or the center shuts down!"
Cheers erupted, rumors of a petition to close the center spreading like wildfire, the community fracturing further.
Layla's teaching interview that afternoon had been a small victory, held at a modest community school a few blocks away, its walls lined with children's artwork, the air warm with the scent of chalk. The principal, Sister Ayesha, was kind but firm.
"Your qualifications are strong, Layla," she said, her hijab a soft green. "But we need a community reference—someone uninvolved in the dispute—to confirm your standing. Can you provide one by tomorrow?"
Layla's stomach knotted, the dispute a shadow over her dreams, Omar's petition a growing threat to the center she loved.
"I'll try, Sister," she said, her voice small, hope flickering but fragile.
She called Amina, voice strained. "The interview went well, but they need a reference—someone outside the dispute. Omar's pushing to close the center, Amina. Idris says Malik funded Sana to force a land sale. What's at the shop?"
Amina's voice was shaky but urgent. "Tariq and I went back—we saw Sana," she said. "She was there, packing papers, but she bolted when she saw us. We grabbed a notebook she dropped—coded entries, names, dates. Tariq's decoding it, but Sana looked panicked, Layla. She knows we're onto her."
Layla's breath caught, Sana's panic a dangerous escalation, the notebook a new clue tying her to Malik.
"Stay safe, Amina," she urged. "Don't go back there."
Her parents summoned her to the living room, the air heavy, the scent of cardamom tea faint. Her father stood, his glasses low, face stern.
"The elders have spoken," he said, voice sharp. "You have until the week's end to distance yourself from Idris, Layla—or they'll intervene publicly, for our family's honor."
Her mother, seated, her bangles clinking, softened the blow. "Beta, we want your happiness," she said, eyes gentle. "But this chaos—the protests, the threats—it's too much. Pray istikhara, seek Allah's guidance."
Layla's throat tightened, their ultimatum a vise—her father's deadline, her mother's hope.
"I'm praying, Ammi," she said, voice small. "But I need the full truth."
At the masjid for Isha, Layla sought Sister Fatima, the women's section quiet, the air calm with the scent of rosewater. Sister Fatima sat by a window, her navy hijab neat.
"Layla, Malik's past dealings—he once tried to buy masjid land, too," she said, voice soft. "Greed drives him, but someone else pulls the strings. Look deeper."
Layla nodded, Sister Fatima's clue heavy, her istikhara that night uneasy, a sense of betrayal looming.
At home, she locked the door, nerves raw. As she set down her bag, she noticed a photo slipped under the door—a grainy image of Idris meeting Malik in a shadowy alley, their faces tense. On the back, a note in familiar handwriting: "He knew all along."
Her heart raced, the photo a dagger of doubt—Sana, Malik, Omar's petition, Idris's secrets—Layla's world was unraveling, betrayal a whisper she couldn't ignore.