Layla clutched the stranger's note in her pocket, its words—"His lies will break you"—burning like a brand. The anonymous photo of Idris meeting a shadowy figure, his vague plea about a creditor named Malik, and Omar's relentless rumors at the masjid gathering churned in her mind, each a thread in a tangle she couldn't unravel.
Amina's lead on Sana, the fired volunteer with a grudge against Idris's father, was her only clue. She whispered a dua, her voice soft in the pre-dawn quiet: "Ya Allah, guide me to truth. Protect me from what seeks to harm."
The neighborhood woke slowly outside—vendors rolling carts of halal meat, the distant clatter of shop shutters, the faint call of Fajr prayer lingering in the air. But the note's weight dulled the familiar pulse.
Layla needed answers, not Idris's half-truths or Omar's calculated charm.
She texted Amina, asking to meet at the masjid library to dig into Sana's past, hoping records might reveal the stranger's motive.
The masjid library was a quiet haven, its shelves lined with worn Qur'ans and tafsir volumes, sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows in hues of amber and blue. Layla sat at a wooden table, Amina beside her, flipping through a binder of old youth center reports.
"Here," Amina whispered, pointing to a 2018 entry. "Sana Khalil, volunteer coordinator. Removed after disputes over a mentorship program's budget. Idris's dad was on the board—she blamed him for the program's failure."
Layla scanned the page, her heart sinking. Sana's handwritten complaint accused Idris's father of mismanaging funds, echoing the grant document's irregularities.
"This could be why she's targeting me," Layla murmured. "But how does she know about Idris and me?"
Amina frowned, her pencil tapping. "She's been seen around the center. Maybe she's watching you, slipping notes. But, Layla, someone texted my cousin last night, warning me to stop asking questions. I think Sana knows we're onto her."
The chill of Amina's words settled deep, the stranger's threat—"Stay away, or you'll regret it"—now a shadow over them both.
Before Layla could reply, Idris entered, his navy thobe catching the light, his expression a mix of relief and tension.
"Assalamu alaikum, Layla," he said, voice low. "I saw you come in. Can we talk? Amina can stay close."
Layla nodded, her pulse quickening as they moved to a corner, Amina lingering nearby.
"Idris, I need more about Malik," she said, her tone firm but quiet. "And Sana—did your father ever mention her?"
Idris's jaw tightened, his fingers brushing his leather bracelet. "Malik's just a creditor, like I said. I met him to renegotiate terms—my father's business took a hit years ago, and we're still paying it off. It's not tied to the center, I swear." He hesitated, eyes searching hers. "Sana… I vaguely remember my dad mentioning a volunteer who caused trouble. I didn't know her name until now. Layla, I'm trying to piece this together too."
His sincerity tugged at her, but his pauses, the gaps in his story, echoed the note's warning.
"Idris," she said, her voice trembling, "I want to believe you, but these notes, the photo—it's too much. What aren't you telling me?"
He stepped closer, voice earnest. "I'm protecting my family, but not from you. Give me a week, Layla—I'll get answers about Malik, the debt, everything. Please, trust me."
His plea stirred her, their shared hope flickering, but doubt clung like damp air.
Amina signaled it was time to leave, and Layla nodded to Idris, her heart heavy.
"A week," she said. "But no more secrets."
That evening, the youth center board meeting drew a tense crowd—board members at a long table, community members filling folding chairs, the air thick with murmurs.
Layla sat near the back, her maroon hijab tucked neatly, her mind on Sana and Idris. Omar stood to speak, his charcoal suit sharp, his voice commanding.
"The audit is critical," he said, eyes sweeping the room. "Discrepancies in past grants—linked to certain families—demand answers. Our youth deserve transparency."
The crowd nodded, whispers spreading, and Layla's stomach knotted as Omar's gaze flicked to Idris, seated with his father. A board member, Sister Rahma, hesitated before agreeing to the audit, swayed by Omar's charm. Idris's father's face tightened, and Layla wondered how much Omar knew—or was inventing.
At home, Layla prepared for her school meeting, her teaching dreams hanging by a thread. The principal's email had been blunt: "Your dispute ties raise concerns. Meet tomorrow to discuss." She confided in Amina over the phone, her voice shaky.
"If I lose this job, Amina, everything I've worked for…"
"Stay strong," Amina said. "But, Layla, I got another warning today—an email, no sender, saying, 'Stop digging, or you'll pay.' Sana's not playing, and I'm scared."
Layla's heart raced, the stranger's reach tightening. "Don't go alone anymore," she urged. "We'll figure this out together."
Her parents called her to the living room, their faces stern.
"Layla," her father said, stirring his tea, "this center mess is dragging you down. Idris's family, Omar's talk—maybe it's time to step back."
Her mother nodded, softer. "We want your happiness, but this path is heavy. Pray, seek istikhara, and be sure."
Layla's throat tightened, their words echoing her own fears.
"I'm trying, Baba, Ammi," she said. "I just need clarity."
Later, at the masjid for Isha prayer, Layla lingered in the women's section, the carpet soft under her knees, the air calm. As she adjusted her hijab, she overheard two aunties whispering nearby, their voices low but sharp.
"The hidden deal," one said. "It's why the funds vanished. His family knows more than they're saying."
Layla froze, her heart pounding. Were they talking about Idris's father? The "hidden deal"—was it the debt, or something worse?
She strained to hear more, but the aunties moved away, their words fading. She stood, her dua a desperate plea:
"Ya Allah, show me the truth. Keep me safe."
Sana's grudge, Omar's rumors, Idris's half-truths, now this whisper—Layla's world was closing in, and the truth felt like a fire she couldn't escape.