The Book That Kills.

- 14 -

Dawud had stopped by the store to buy a few things that he knew they were running out of at home. He decided to use the front door, instead of climbing back through his window, because he knew that the elderly couple he lived with would be up by now.

It was a little past nine in the morning and the two would be coming back home from their morning walk so he wanted to prepare some snacks for them. He felt guilty that he had been so caught up with his work that he hadn't even taken the time to check up on them or make them meals like he used to; he knew he didn't have to do it -- they always insisted they could do it themselves -- but he had been doing it for so long that it had almost become second nature for him. They were like parental figures to him and he tried his best to fill the gap that had been left when their two children moved out and started their own families.

He was so consumed by the thought of making up missed family time that he didn't notice the front door of the house was open until he was right in front of it. His heart dropped to his stomach.

"Aunty El?" he called out, slowly pushing the door open and stepping over the threshold. "Uncle Ibrahim?"

There was no response.

He dropped the shopping bags he was holding and quickly scanned the inside of the house -- knocking on each door, sticking his head in each room. Furniture had been upturned, lights broken, pillows ripped. His voice got louder and more urgent as he called out for the two people who had been more like his parents than those who had brought him into this world.

He frantically reached for his phone and, with shaking fingers, dialled for Ibrahim and Elaf; Ibrahim had left his phone at home while Elaf's went straight to voicemail. Dawud retraced his footsteps back to the kitchen, the first place he had checked, about to call the police to report the break in, when he saw a note pinned to a cereal box with a knife.

It hadn't been there before.

'Back off,' it said. 'Next time, you won't be so lucky, Detective. Y.'

It was a printed note, not handwritten, which meant this had been part of The Man's plan all along; he didn't want to hurt Ibrahim or Elaf - yet - he just wanted to give Dawud a scare. It also meant that the note couldn't be used to identify The Man. Dawud wondered if it was possible to catch The Man off guard, or to catch him at all. He realized these were all warnings: The Man wanted him and Jamal to stop interfering with whatever he wanted to do.

This also answered his question of whether or not The Man knew where he lived: unfortunately, he did. Which, Dawud realized, meant that The Man probably knew who he was without his disguise. The Man knew the face of the detective.

"Dawud," a soft voice called out from the front of the house, "are you home?"

"Is Dawud here?" a man's voice replied, followed by the sound of the front door closing. "Why has he left the groceries by the door?"

"I-- oh." A pause and some shuffling. "Oh no. Ibrahim, where's Dawud?! Come look at this."

Dawud stepped out of the kitchen and made his way to where Elaf and Ibrahim were standing, assessing the damage of the living with wide eyes. They turned simultaneously as they heard him come up behind them. There were tears in his eyes that blurred his vision.

"Dawud, what happened?" Ibrahim asked, immediately reaching out towards the young man.

"Are you hurt?" Elaf asked, her hands clasped against her chest in concern. "What's going on?"

Ibrahim's grip was firm, supportive; he held Dawud by the shoulders at arm's length, critically examining him to make sure he hadn't sustained any injuries. Dawud all but collapsed into the man's arms.