I opened the door. “Yes, I am.” I put one arm akimbo. “I’ve been here for more than a month, sharing and helping and living as family. You’ve made me feel more comfortable and welcome than my own kin in Ein el-Sultan. Why don’t you trust me?”

“Let’s get going. I’ll explain everything. I want to be out of our mother’s earshot, because I fear you’re going to be even angrier with me when you hear what I tell you.”

We agreed to talk in the evening after closing the shop.

It turned out that for a month, Bilal had been spying on me. He’d had me followed and knew where I was at all times. If I took a day off to go to town, he had a spy reporting back my every move as I got my hair fixed, eyebrows threaded, and body waxed. The shady meetings in the back room were for show. To test me. They were actually playing backgammon, night after night, waiting to see if soldiers would raid the pastry shop after a tip-off from me. He’d set traps and left clues, and I had recognized none of it. He’d pretended to speak in code on calls with his friends, then waited to catch me making a call or sending a message on my mobile phone.

“A call or text to whom?” I stuttered. It was growing dark as we walked home after parking the car, small lights dotting the new settlement on the hilltop.

“Your handler,” he said.

“What the hell is a handler?” I was stunned. “You think I would work with them?” I pointed toward the lights.

“You have to understand, Nahr, we didn’t know you. You showed up with a mobile phone,” Bilal said, his right hand quivering. “Suddenly el khaneeth calls to give me power of attorney to process your divorce, after we’ve barely heard from either of you in all this time. Neither of you called my mother first. Someone in my position cannot take chances.”

I didn’t notice in the moment that he said khaneeth. Fag. I was too consumed by anger and humiliation. I had been in contact with one of the girls in Kuwait recently, and she’d sent a text asking if I was still working, because one of my old customers was coming to Amman. Had Bilal seen that? How had I responded to her? Did Bilal know what I was talking about? Surely he did. My face flushed with shame and panic. He had gone through all my communications. Nothing had been private.

“How could you?” I lunged at him. “You and your friends must have had a good laugh! You shit! You fucker!”

He came closer, trying to embrace me. “It wasn’t like that. No one talked about you. I wouldn’t allow anyone to speak badly of you.”