“You duped me. You lied to me,” Laila said, gritting her teeth.
“You had that man sit across from me and... You knew I would leave if I thought he was alive.”
“AND YOU DIDN'T LIE TO ME?” Rasheed roared. “You think I didn't figure it out? About your harami? You take me for a fool, you whore?”
The more Tariq talked, the more Laila dreaded the moment when he would stop.
The silence that would follow, the signal that it was her turn to give account,
to provide the why and how and when, to make official what he surely already knew.
She felt a faint nausea whenever he paused. She averted his eyes.
She looked down at his hands, at the coarse, dark hairs that had sprouted on the back of them in the intervening years.
Tariq wouldn't say much about his years in prison save that he'd learned to speak Urdu there.
When Laila asked, he gave an impatient shake of his head.
In this gesture, Laila saw rusty bars and unwashed bodies, violent men and crowded halls, and ceilings rotting with moldy deposits.
She read in his face that it had been a place of abasement, of degradation and despair.
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