The front door slammed. More boots. Abdul Amir barreled into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” cried Huda.

Abdul Amir ignored her. Something in his eyes reminded her of Khalid by the lake at Martyr’s Monument, when he said her brothers would be ashamed of her. Abdul Amir went straight to the fridge, pulled out a six-pack of beer, and then hurried out to the garden.

“Abu Issa, would you mind waiting in the living room?” Huda grabbed a paper towel and wiped bread crumbs from her trembling hands. “I need to speak with my husband for a moment.”

“It’s better if you leave him alone.”

“Alone? Why?”

In the oven, chicken fat splattered and popped.

“Abdul Amir needs some space right now,” said Abu Issa. “Let him be. There’s no need for you to get involved in men’s business.”

Huda glanced through the window into the garden. Men’s business. What did that mean? Abdul Amir hunched over the picnic table, one bottle of beer in his hand, the others waiting to be drained. When he’d looked at her in the kitchen, his face had been slack with shock. Was it possible he’d learned of her plan? Had he turned her in to the mukhabarat?

“I’m thirsty.” Abu Issa frowned. “Can you do me the favor of pouring some juice, with ice, then join us in the living room?”

“Us?”

“My partner is here,” he muttered darkly. “He’s in the living room, waiting for you.”

Goose bumps prickled Huda’s skin. Was Abu Issa toying with her, with his request for cold juice? Did her husband intend to sit in the backyard and drink himself senseless, while the mukhabarat dragged his disloyal wife to Abu Ghraib? Her eyes swiveled to the knife on the chopping board. She thought of the gun that Abdul Amir kept under the bed. But in the end, she set two glasses of mango juice on a tray and followed Abu Issa into the living room.

The Bolt Cutter paced the room with a rabid-dog gleam in his eyes. She laid the tray on the table, and he snatched up a glass in his fist. Huda stopped dead. The Bolt Cutter’s knuckles were scraped raw. Flecks of blood stained his shirt. Was this men’s business?

“Have you spoken with Ally Wilson recently?” Abu Issa didn’t bother with his usual chitchat. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No.” Her answer came faster and louder than she intended.

“Are you sure?”

Huda battled the urge to run down the hall, out the door, and into the street. She prayed that Khalid would stay out late, that he wouldn’t come home to find a man with bloodied hands in his living room—or his mother vanished to the dungeons of Abu Ghraib.

Abu Issa traded glances with the Bolt Cutter.

“Sit down, sister.”

Huda’s body refused to obey.