Chapter 4
THE NUMBER SHE NEVER FORGOT
Hamza's bed was empty, his phone was switched off, and their mother's name was written on a piece of paper that had not existed the night before.
Aaliyah stood in the doorway of her brother's room, staring at the unmade mattress.
For several seconds, she couldn't make sense of what she was seeing.
His university books lay open on the desk. A half-finished cup of tea sat beside a charging cable. His grey hoodie hung from the back of the chair, and his worn sneakers were missing from beneath the bed.
He hadn't packed properly.
That should have comforted her.
Instead, it frightened her more.
She pulled the paper from her pocket and read the number again.
SAMINA.
Not Ammi. Not Mama. Not the name he had used when he was little enough to remember their mother as a person rather than an absence.
Samina.
Aaliyah's stomach tightened.
Yesterday, Faraz Malik had shown her a photograph of their mother with those same words written on the back.
DO NOT FIND ME.
Below the message was Hamza's name.
She had returned home expecting an explanation. She had imagined him sitting at the kitchen table, making some foolish joke about how she looked like she hadn't slept in a week. She had prepared questions, accusations, even an apology for keeping the letter from him.
She hadn't prepared herself for an empty room.
"Hamza?"
Her voice sounded ridiculous.
She checked the bathroom, the roof, and the small balcony where he sometimes went to take calls away from the rest of the house.
Nothing.
She called his phone.
It rang once before going straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
On the third attempt, she threw the phone onto his bed and immediately picked it up again, ashamed of the childish gesture.
"Come on," she whispered.
Her brother had a talent for disappearing whenever life became difficult. At sixteen, he had spent an entire afternoon at a friend's house after failing an examination because he couldn't face their father. At eighteen, he had borrowed money from a classmate and concealed the debt until the classmate came to their door.
But this was different.
There had been a dead father, a mysterious letter, and a photograph of their mother dated yesterday.
And now Hamza was gone.
Aaliyah hurried into the kitchen.
Auntie Shazia was sitting at the table, removing the leaves from a bunch of coriander. She looked up when Aaliyah entered.
"Have you seen Hamza?"
"Didn't he go to university?"
"His classes start at eleven."
Shazia glanced at the clock.
"It's not even nine."
"Then perhaps he's out."
"Without his phone?"
"How should I know, Aaliyah? He's nineteen, not nine."
Aaliyah gripped the back of a chair.
"Did he say anything to you last night?"
Shazia's hands stopped moving.
It was brief. Barely noticeable.
But Aaliyah had become painfully attentive to small silences.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Shazia resumed sorting the coriander.
"Must I give you a report every time your brother leaves the house?"
"No. Just tell me if you know something."
"I don't."
Aaliyah looked at her aunt's face.
The answer was too quick.
She wanted to push, to demand that Shazia stop treating her like a child who couldn't be trusted with the truth. But her aunt had spent the previous evening warning her away from their father's papers, and every conversation about Samina seemed to leave her more frightened than before.
Aaliyah took a breath.
"Do you remember my mother's phone number?"
Shazia dropped a coriander leaf.
"What?"
"Her number. The one she used before she disappeared."
"That was years ago."
"Do you remember it?"
"No."
Aaliyah placed the paper on the table.
Shazia stared at it.
The color drained from her face so quickly that Aaliyah took a step closer.
"Where did you get that?"
"From Hamza's room."
"Put it away."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"That isn't an answer."
Shazia stood abruptly, knocking her chair backward.
"You think every secret is yours to uncover just because you're old enough to ask questions?"
Aaliyah flinched.
Her aunt seemed to regret the words, but only for a moment.
"Your father is gone," Shazia continued, lowering her voice. "You have a brother who needs you. You have bills to pay and a future to think about. Stop chasing people who have already caused this family enough pain."
"Did my mother cause the pain, or did the people who kept her away?"
Shazia's eyes filled.
She looked down at the table.
For one fragile moment, Aaliyah thought her aunt might finally tell her something.
Instead, Shazia picked up her shawl.
"Lock the front door before you leave."
Then she walked out of the kitchen.
Aaliyah remained where she was.
On the table, the paper lay between a bowl of coriander and a chipped cup that had belonged to her father.
She looked at the number.
There were eleven digits.
She dialed them.
A mechanical voice informed her that the number was unavailable.
She tried again.
The same message.
Then she opened her messaging app and typed a sentence.
I need to know where you are.
She stared at it for a moment before adding another.
I know about the photograph.
She sent the message.
One grey tick appeared.
Aaliyah slipped the phone into her pocket and went to find her shoes.
She was done waiting for people to decide when she deserved the truth.
By ten thirty, Aaliyah was standing outside Malik Holdings again.
The receptionist recognized her immediately.
"Miss Rahman."
"I need to speak to Zayan Malik."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
The receptionist's smile tightened.
"I'm afraid Mr. Malik is unavailable."
"Then tell him Aaliyah Rahman is here about the photograph of Samina."
The receptionist stopped smiling.
Aaliyah watched her pick up the telephone.
This time, there was no prolonged wait.
A few minutes later, the elevator doors opened, and Zayan stepped out.
He wore a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair looked as though he had run his hands through it several times, and the faint scar above his eyebrow seemed more pronounced beneath the office lights.
He looked tired.
Good, Aaliyah thought. At least someone else hadn't slept.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"That's becoming a popular opinion."
He glanced toward reception.
"Come with me."
"Not until you tell me what happened to my brother."
Something changed in his expression.
"What?"
"Where is Hamza?"
"I don't know."
"Your father had a photograph of my mother dated yesterday. My brother's name was written on the back. Now Hamza is missing."
Zayan stared at her.
For the first time since she had met him, his composure disappeared completely.
"What did the photograph look like?"
"A woman in a grey shawl. She was standing outside somewhere, holding a handbag."
"Was there anything else?"
"Just the message."
"What message?"
Aaliyah hesitated.
"Do not find me."
Zayan swore under his breath.
The receptionist looked up.
He lowered his voice.
"Come upstairs."
This time, Aaliyah followed him.
They entered a private office at the end of the corridor. Unlike his father's room, it contained almost no decoration. A desk, two chairs, a bookcase, and a large window overlooking the street.
Zayan closed the door.
"Show me the number."
Aaliyah handed him the paper.
He read it twice, then took out his phone and typed the digits into a search field.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking whether the number belongs to a known contact."
"Whose contact?"
"Someone who works with my father."
Aaliyah folded her arms.
"You expect me to believe your father has people tracking my mother?"
"I expect you to understand that my father doesn't do anything without knowing how it will affect him."
"That wasn't an answer."
"No," he said. "It wasn't."
He set his phone on the desk.
"Your mother was connected to a legal dispute involving Malik Holdings seventeen years ago. I was twelve at the time. I remember arguments in my father's study, people coming to the house after midnight, and my mother telling me to stay in my room."
"Your mother?"
"She knew Samina. I don't know how well. I was a child."
Aaliyah studied him.
"You never mentioned that yesterday."
"Yesterday, I was trying to stop my father from saying something he couldn't take back."
"What did you mean when you said your family had done something after my mother disappeared?"
Zayan looked toward the window.
"My father paid for something. I don't know whether it was silence, an agreement, or an attempt to make a problem disappear. I was too young to understand the details."
"But you know he paid."
"I know I overheard him discussing money with a lawyer. I know your father's name came up. And I know my father has spent seventeen years refusing to discuss that period of his life."
Aaliyah felt anger rise in her chest.
"You have had seventeen years to ask questions."
"I have."
"And?"
"And I learned that my father is very good at making people regret asking."
She wanted to dismiss him as another privileged man hiding behind vague explanations. It would have been easier if he were arrogant, if he had smiled at her grief or told her to leave the matter to the police.
Instead, he looked genuinely afraid.
Not for himself.
For what she might discover.
"Can you contact my mother?" she asked.
"No."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No."
"Do you know whether she's alive?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"I believe she is."
Aaliyah's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
"Why?"
"Because my father received a package three weeks ago. It contained a photograph. I saw it by accident."
"Of my mother?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"
"Because I hadn't seen the date on the photograph you brought. And because I didn't know whether the picture was genuine."
"Who sent the package?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know anything."
"I know enough to tell you that your mother didn't simply vanish."
He leaned forward.
"Someone has been making sure she stays out of sight."
The room seemed to grow smaller.
Aaliyah sat down.
For seventeen years, she had carried an explanation that was painful but simple. Her mother had left because she had wanted to. Her father had stayed because he had loved them. Their family had been damaged, but at least the damage had a recognizable shape.
Now every certainty had begun to crumble.
"Why would someone want her hidden?"
Zayan's gaze shifted to the paper.
"That's what I intend to find out."
Aaliyah looked at him sharply.
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't make promises to strangers."
"Then consider me a stranger."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"You're Imran Rahman's daughter. That makes this personal."
"Personal for whom?"
He had no answer.
His phone vibrated on the desk.
He looked at the screen, and the muscles in his jaw tightened.
"What is it?" Aaliyah asked.
"Nothing."
"Don't."
He turned the phone toward her.
A message had arrived from an unknown number.
STOP ASKING ABOUT SAMINA RAHMAN.
Below it was an image.
Aaliyah leaned closer.
It was a photograph of her house.
Taken from across the street.
The front door was visible, along with the small balcony outside Hamza's room.
A second message appeared.
THE CHILDREN HAVE ALREADY PAID ENOUGH.
Aaliyah felt cold spread through her arms.
"They know where I live."
Zayan stood.
"How long have you been receiving these messages?"
"I haven't."
He picked up his phone.
"Someone has been watching your family."
Aaliyah thought of Hamza leaving without his phone. She thought of Shazia's frightened face, of her father's locked suitcase, and of the photograph dated yesterday.
"Call the police," she said.
"I will."
"No. Now."
He looked at her, then nodded.
For the first time, she saw something in his expression that resembled respect.
He made the call.
While he spoke, Aaliyah opened her messaging app and checked the message she had sent to the number in Hamza's room.
The single grey tick had changed.
Two ticks.
Her heart lurched.
A new message appeared.
I'M SORRY, AAPI.
Then another.
DON'T TRUST AUNTIE SHAZIA.
Aaliyah stood so abruptly that the chair scraped across the floor.
"What's happened?" Zayan asked, ending his call.
She showed him the screen.
He read the messages without speaking.
"Call him," he said.
She did.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then someone answered.
Aaliyah pressed the phone to her ear.
"Hamza?"
There was a faint sound of movement, followed by a man's voice.
"Miss Rahman?"
She froze.
It wasn't Hamza.
"Who is this?"
"Your brother is safe."
"Where is he?"
"That depends on what you do next."
Aaliyah gripped the phone so tightly her fingers hurt.
"If you've touched him—"
"Your brother is not the problem, Miss Rahman. His curiosity is."
"Let me speak to him."
A pause.
Then Hamza's voice broke through, thin and hurried.
"Aapi?"
"Hamza, where are you?"
"I'm sorry."
"Tell me where you are."
"I can't."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. Listen to me. I need you to go home and—"
The line crackled.
A man's voice interrupted.
"That's enough."
"Hamza!" Aaliyah shouted.
The connection ended.
For a moment, she could hear nothing except the blood rushing in her ears.
She called back.
The number was switched off.
Zayan took the phone from her hand before she could throw it.
"We'll find him."
"You don't know that."
"No," he said. "But I'm not going to stand here and pretend there's nothing we can do."
She looked at him.
"What do they want?"
He didn't answer.
Because they both knew the answer was written in the messages.
The truth about Samina.
And whatever Hamza had discovered before he disappeared.
The police arrived at the house shortly after noon.
Aaliyah gave them every detail she could remember: the photograph, the messages, the unknown caller, and Hamza's voice on the phone.
She did not tell them about her father's letter.
Not yet.
She wasn't sure why. Perhaps some part of her still believed that once the letter was handed over, the investigation would become something she could no longer control. Perhaps she was afraid the police would ask questions about Imran that she wasn't ready to answer.
Or perhaps she simply didn't trust anyone enough to surrender the last piece of her father's private life.
Auntie Shazia arrived while an officer was taking notes.
She stopped in the doorway when she saw the uniforms.
"What happened?"
Aaliyah looked at her.
"Where is Hamza?"
Shazia's face tightened.
"What do you mean?"
"Where is he?"
"I thought he was at university."
"You lied to me this morning."
"No, I didn't."
"You saw his name on that paper. You knew something."
Shazia glanced at the officers.
"Can we speak privately?"
"No."
"Aaliyah, please."
The word sounded unfamiliar in her aunt's mouth.
Aaliyah folded her arms.
"You told me my mother made choices that hurt this family. You told me to stop looking. Now Hamza is missing, and someone is sending me messages telling me not to ask about Samina. If you know something, tell me."
Shazia looked as though she had been struck.
One of the officers stood.
"Madam, if you have information relevant to this incident, we need to hear it."
Shazia pressed a hand against her chest.
"I don't know where the boy is."
"That isn't what she asked," Aaliyah said.
Her aunt's eyes filled with tears.
For a moment, she looked less like the woman who had spent years telling everyone else what to do and more like someone who had been waiting for a terrible day to arrive.
Then she said something that made Aaliyah forget how to breathe.
"Your mother called me last night."
The room fell silent.
Aaliyah stared at her.
"What?"
"She called me after midnight."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"She said I mustn't."
"She said what?"
"She asked about Hamza. She wanted to know whether he was safe."
Aaliyah felt the floor shift beneath her.
"Why Hamza?"
Shazia shook her head.
"I don't know."
"You spoke to her for seventeen years, and you never told me?"
"I didn't speak to her for seventeen years."
"Then why last night?"
"Because she knew Imran had died."
Aaliyah swallowed.
"How?"
Shazia's eyes dropped to the floor.
"Someone told her."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying again."
Shazia flinched.
The officer stepped closer.
"Madam, I need you to explain exactly what happened during that call."
Shazia sat down heavily.
"She didn't tell me where she was. She didn't tell me how to contact her. She only asked about the children."
Aaliyah leaned forward.
"What did she say?"
Shazia looked at her with an expression Aaliyah couldn't bear.
"She asked whether you still wore your father's watch."
Aaliyah's hand went instinctively to her wrist.
The watch was old and slightly too large, with a scratched silver face and a leather strap her father had replaced twice. He had given it to her on her eighteenth birthday.
She had worn it every day since.
"Why would she ask that?"
"I don't know."
"Did you tell her I was wearing it?"
Shazia nodded.
"What happened then?"
"She started crying."
Aaliyah stared at her aunt.
She had imagined this moment a thousand times. Her mother appearing at the front door. Her mother calling on her birthday. Her mother standing in a crowd, recognizing her face.
She had never imagined her mother calling someone else to ask about a watch.
"Did she ask to speak to me?"
Shazia began to cry.
"No."
The answer hurt more than Aaliyah expected.
She looked away, blinking hard.
"Did she ask to speak to Hamza?"
"Yes."
"What did she say to him?"
"I don't know. I didn't put him on the phone."
"Why not?"
"Because she told me not to."
Aaliyah stepped backward.
It was too much. Too many years of silence compressed into a single afternoon. Her mother was alive, apparently close enough to make telephone calls, yet she had not asked to speak to her daughter.
She had asked about a watch.
She had asked about Hamza.
And now Hamza was gone.
Aaliyah turned toward the corridor, unable to look at her aunt any longer.
Her phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
She answered immediately.
"Where is my brother?"
A woman's voice came through the line.
Soft.
Careful.
So familiar that Aaliyah's knees nearly gave way.
"Aaliyah?"
The room disappeared around her.
She knew that voice.
Not from the few memories she carried, but from an old cassette tape her father had kept in a drawer. A lullaby recorded years ago, before everything fell apart.
She had listened to it as a child when she couldn't sleep.
She had memorized the rhythm of every word.
"Ammi?"
A sharp breath came through the phone.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then the woman said, "You shouldn't have gone to Faraz Malik."
Aaliyah pressed the phone against her ear.
"Where are you?"
"Listen to me carefully. You have to stop looking."
"No."
"Aaliyah, please."
"Where is Hamza?"
Silence.
"Where is my brother?"
"I can't tell you."
"Is he with you?"
Another silence.
Then, very quietly, her mother said, "Your brother has discovered something that should have stayed buried."
Aaliyah's throat closed.
"What did he discover?"
Her mother began to cry.
"Your father wasn't the man you think he was."
Aaliyah shut her eyes.
"No. Don't do this. Don't call me after seventeen years just to destroy the only good thing I have left."
"I'm not trying to hurt you."
"Then tell me the truth."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because if I tell you what happened the night I left, you'll understand why I had to choose between my children."
Aaliyah stopped breathing.
"Choose between us?"
Her mother's voice broke.
"I thought I was saving you."
The line crackled.
Aaliyah heard a door slam somewhere in the background.
Then her mother whispered, "They're coming."
"Who's coming?"
"Aaliyah, whatever happens, don't let Faraz—"
The call ended.
She stared at the screen.
For a moment, she couldn't move.
Then a message arrived from the same number.
Three words.
ASK ABOUT THE FIRE.
Aaliyah read them once.
Twice.
Then she looked at the watch on her wrist, the one her mother had asked about the night before.
A thin line of scratches ran along its silver back.
She had never removed the back plate.
She had never needed to.
Until now.
That evening, Zayan returned to the house with a small toolkit and a promise that he wouldn't leave until they had worked out what the messages meant.
Aaliyah had spent the afternoon trying to contact Hamza's friends, classmates, and university administration. No one had seen him since the previous evening. His roommate said he had left after receiving a phone call and hadn't returned.
The police were following several leads, but none had produced an address.
Aaliyah didn't tell them about the conversation with her mother.
She didn't tell Zayan either.
Not because she trusted him less than the others, but because the call had changed something inside her. She had spent years imagining what she would say if her mother ever returned. Now she couldn't stop hearing the fear in her voice.
I thought I was saving you.
Zayan sat across from her at the kitchen table.
"You said the photograph was dated yesterday."
"Yes."
"And your aunt says your mother called her last night."
"Yes."
"Then someone wanted you to know she was alive."
"Or someone wanted me to believe it."
He nodded.
"That's possible."
Aaliyah studied him.
"You don't seem surprised by anything."
"I've had a difficult family."
"That doesn't explain why you keep helping me."
He turned the ring on his finger.
"Maybe I'm tired of watching people pay for my father's decisions."
It was the first honest thing he had said without qualifying it.
Aaliyah looked down at her watch.
"My mother asked about this."
Zayan leaned forward.
"What?"
"She asked whether I still wore it. Then she told me to ask about a fire."
He stared at the watch.
"Can I see it?"
Aaliyah hesitated before unfastening the strap and placing it on the table.
He turned it over.
The scratched silver back reflected the kitchen light.
"Do you know how to open this?"
"My father used to repair watches."
Zayan picked up the small screwdriver from the toolkit and carefully loosened the back plate.
Aaliyah watched him work.
The cover came free with a soft click.
Inside, beneath the mechanism, lay a tiny folded piece of paper.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Aaliyah reached for it.
The paper was yellowed at the edges, no larger than a postage stamp. She unfolded it with trembling fingers.
There were three lines written in blue ink.
ROOM 17.
JUNE 14.
ASK WHO LOCKED THE DOOR.
Zayan read the words over her shoulder.
Then he went completely still.
"What is it?" Aaliyah asked.
He looked at her.
"June fourteenth was the night of the Malik estate fire."
Aaliyah's fingers tightened around the paper.
"What fire?"
Zayan's face had lost all color.
"The fire that killed my mother."