There, she had done it, she thought as she hurried for the plane. But what had she done?

31. Laila

Laila

In the weeks that followed, Jenna often wondered what effect her letter had on Malik. Had he simply been relieved that she was alive? Furious at being deceived?

A little of each? If she were to see him, would he still be the Malik she knew? Or would he be a stranger?

And what would Laila be like now, having grown up in the perpetual pageant of her billionaire father’s life?

The tabloids had become strangely silent on the subject of Malik. Per- haps, thought Jenna, he was sheltering himself and Laila after the trouble in Rome. Then, two months after the shooting, Jenna read that her brother had acquired yet another lavish residence, an apartment at the Pierre Hotel in New York. The brief article—a regular news item in the Boston Globe—noted that Malik was still recuperating from the attack in Rome and that “a source who asked not to be named stated that Badir believes his daughter will be safer in the United States than in Europe.”

That might be true, thought Jenna, but she couldn’t help wondering if her letter had something to do with Malik’s decision. Could it be that he was reaching out, just as she had?

Despite her education, she still harbored an ingrained belief in portents and in destiny, and when, a month later, she read in the New York Post’s ‘‘Page Six” that Laila had been enrolled at the Brearley School, she was sure it was a sign, fate calling out to her. Should she answer? Dared she?

O

Squeezed into a cramped seat on the Boston-New York shuttle, Jenna tried to convince herself that she really did need to keep in touch with colleagues such as her old Adlerian-theory professor, now in private practice in New York, with whom she had a lunch date. In rebuttal, the remnants of her objective, analytical powers delivered a more succinct, if unprofessional, opinion: You’re crazy, Jenna, absolutely crazy. But her heart, not her head, had all the votes.

Donald Weltman’s offices, off Park Avenue, could have belonged to one of the neighborhood’s star plastic surgeons. The former professor wore an Armani suit rather than the patchy tweeds Jenna remembered from the lecture hall. His iron-gray hair, flyaway at Harvard, was elegantly coiffed. Obviously, he was doing very well.

He had a reservation at the L’Argenteuil and insisted on picking up the tab. For much of the meal, he was still the lecturer and she the student, although instead of Adler, the topic was the beauty of private practice in Manhattan.

“And you, Jenna?’’ he said over dessert. “I hear you’re developing a good young practice.”

“I can’t complain. I have enough paying customers to make ends meet and still have time for a little research.”

“A new book?”