Chapter 63 Omar, Son Of Abdullah Abu Bakir

Until now, Omar Farouq had been grateful for all of these things. He found he resented this woman for awakening all the other parts of him that he’d cast aside when he’d come here, broken and grieving and determined to fix what had happened the only way he could.

“Aaliyah,” she offered. Eventually. But she didn’t sound agreeable or obedient. Her gaze darkened as she glared back at him, as if she resented him right back. As if she dared that, too. She cleared her throat. “Aaliyah Ibrahim.”

And her name in her own voice rang in him. Like a scrap of a forgotten song. A lyric, maybe, though the melody was lost. Though he told himself he was no singer, and he knew no good could come of recalling that long-ago night in a Cambridge pub, he said, “I know that name.”

“My last name is Ibrahim.” Her tone was as suspiciously bland as her gaze was a storm cloud. “People do tend to recognize it. What with it being common as dirt and all.”

“Was that an attempt to be scathing?” he asked, and then he