“Yes, I’ve got it,” his father said, just as the afternoon sun shifted and showed that there was still egg on the windows. Marwan got up to get a glass cleaner and paper towels and wished he’d been the one who’d walked Eden home last night.

Out on the sidewalk, after cleaning the remaining spots, he texted Kartik. Hey what do you know about Christos’s older brother? Isn’t he your brother’s age? Does he maybe drive a red car?

Not much. Works at family auto-body shop. No idea. Why?

No reason.

But the reason he asked was that some witnesses had mentioned a particular make and model of car to the police. A make and model that Marwan was pretty sure belonged to Christos’s older brother, who sometimes dropped Christos off at school.

Right sure. ????, Kartik wrote.

Long story, Marwan answered. Tell you when I see you.

He would let the police investigation run its course. He wouldn’t make any accusations. He had no real proof. Just theories. But why else would Christos have asked if he was working?

Eden had looked more sad than angry about the whole thing. He’d liked that about her. Wished he could be more like that, really. But she didn’t live with the same kind of fear that he lived with.

The reporter arrived and set up a camera—and right away, the interview was happening. Lights, cameras, action—it felt that fast.

When the reporter, a super petite brunette with a short bob and bangs, went live—“We’re here in Astoria, Queens, at the site of an alleged hate crime incident involving the egging of a popular Egyptian restaurant …”—Marwan’s entire body tensed, but when interviewed, his father pulled through, shining up his anger with a more palatable sheen of sadness and confusion.

He described surprise at the attack, then said, “We’ve lived here for twenty-five years. My children were born here. We love this country and love our neighborhood. We’re saddened by these events.”

Perfect, Marwan thought.

The reporter nodded at Marwan’s dad, then turned back to the camera:

“Anyone with information that might help the police find the perpetrators of this attack should call the number on the screen. Once again, this is Tamar Richardson, reporting from Astoria.”

It was all over so fast that Marwan wished he’d spent less time fretting about it.

He checked his phone.

Nothing from Eden or Eli.

Why did Eli need one of them to take it when he’d said he could?

Probably no news was good news, but it didn’t feel that way.

He started composing a message to Eden—something like “Just checking in?”—then deleted it.