Once, when I was looking for a missing set of keys, I had tried the handle.
He had caught me.
He had gripped my wrist so tightly that I wore long sleeves for the rest of the day.
“You have no reason to go in there,” he had said.
I had never tried again.
Now his father was telling three hundred people that he had entered it.
“I found boxes of documents,” he continued. “Copies of messages. Written accounts of arguments. Financial records. And a notebook containing dates, names, and descriptions of incidents involving people who had once been close to my son.”
Khalid shook his head.
“They are private business records.”
“Some were private,” his father replied. “Others were evidence of things you had spent years denying.”
I felt cold.
Had Khalid been recording our arguments? Had he been collecting information about me, preparing to portray me as unstable if I ever tried to leave?
