Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Wrong Number
The hospital room was too clean.
Khalida hated it.
The whiteness.
The chemical smell.
The soft electronic beeping.
Everything about the room suggested safety while her mind insisted the opposite.
She had two fractured ribs, severe bruising, dehydration, and a concussion that required observation.
The doctor had told her she had been lucky.
Khalida had nearly laughed.
Lucky women did not hide on bathroom floors.
Lucky women did not accidentally summon men like Deacon.
He stood near the window, jacket removed, sleeves immaculate, watching the city.
Two men waited outside the door.
Khalida had counted.
She had also noticed hospital administrators treating Deacon differently.
Nobody asked for insurance information after he arrived.
Nobody questioned how he entered restricted areas.
Doctors seemed to know his name without introduction.
Finally, Khalida said, “You own the hospital?”
Deacon looked at her.
“No.”
“Then why does everyone act like you do?”
“I donate.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”
Khalida shifted.
Pain stabbed through her chest.
Deacon immediately noticed.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Move like you’re trying to prove something.”
“You’re strangely bossy for a man I met because I can’t type phone numbers correctly.”
“You’re strangely argumentative for someone with a concussion.”
She studied him.
“I need to call Sarah.”
“She’s downstairs.”
Khalida stared.
“What?”
“I had someone bring her.”
“You had someone—”
The door opened.
Sarah rushed inside.
Her dark hair was half tied, one shoe untied, coat thrown over pajamas.
“Khalida!”
She crossed the room and carefully hugged her.
Khalida broke.
All the strength she had been pretending to possess disappeared.
“I’m sorry.”
Sarah pulled back.
“For what?”
“For not telling you.”
Sarah’s face crumpled.
“You idiot.”
She kissed Khalida’s forehead.
“You absolute idiot.”
Deacon quietly stepped toward the door.
Sarah noticed him.
“Are you the man who found her?”
Deacon paused.
“She found me.”
Sarah frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Wrong number.”
Khalida explained in pieces.
The text.
The response.
The apartment.
Sarah stared at Deacon as if he had emerged from a myth nobody had invited into the room.
Then recognition entered her face.
Her expression changed completely.
“Oh my God.”
Deacon’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Sarah whispered, “You’re Deacon Vale.”
Khalida looked between them.
“Should that mean something?”
Sarah looked at her sister.
“You genuinely don’t know?”
“No.”
Sarah lowered her voice.
“Vale Holdings.”
Khalida stared blankly.
“Hotels?”
“Hotels, shipping, construction, security.”
Sarah hesitated.
“And according to half the city, other things.”
Deacon’s expression remained neutral.
“According to half the city, Elvis lives in Queens.”
Sarah did not smile.
Khalida watched him.
“Are you mafia?”
Deacon actually looked amused.
“That’s a dramatic word.”
“That isn’t a no.”
“No.”
“You’re saying no?”
“I’m saying I don’t describe myself using words invented by prosecutors and filmmakers.”
Sarah muttered, “That’s the most mafia answer I’ve ever heard.”
Khalida nearly smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
“Greg was working for someone looking for you.”
Deacon’s expression sharpened.
Sarah looked confused.
“What?”
Khalida told her.
When she finished, Sarah sat down.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Deacon said. “It doesn’t.”
He stepped closer.
“How long were you with Greg?”
“Two years.”
“When did you meet him?”
“Twenty-three months ago.”
“Where?”
“The diner.”
“Did he approach you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he ask?”
Khalida thought.
“Normal things.”
“Try.”
She frowned.
“He asked how long I’d lived in the city. Whether my parents were from here. Where I worked before the diner.”
Deacon exchanged a look with one of the men at the door.
“What?” Khalida demanded.
He continued.
“Did he ever ask about your father?”
The question struck strangely.
“My father died when I was twelve.”
“Name?”
“Faris Darzi.”
For the first time Deacon lost control of his expression.
Only for a second.
But Khalida saw it.
“You knew him.”
“No.”
“You did.”
Deacon went still.
Sarah stood.
“Who was our father?”
The question carried years of frustration.
Their mother had rarely spoken about Faris.
He had supposedly worked in logistics.
A quiet man.
Dead in a highway accident.
That was all.
Deacon looked at Khalida.
“Your father worked for mine.”
The room changed.
Khalida stared.
“In hotels?”
“No.”
That single word carried enough darkness to fill the room.
Sarah whispered, “What did he do?”
“Information.”
“What kind?”
“Sensitive.”
Khalida’s heart started beating faster.
“Greg knew this?”
“We’re finding out.”
Deacon’s phone vibrated.
He read something.
His face hardened.
“What now?” Khalida asked.
“One of my people searched Greg’s apartment.”
“You had people search it?”
“He no longer requires privacy.”
“What did they find?”
Deacon walked toward her bed.
“A photograph.”
He handed her the phone.
Khalida looked.
The image showed a printed photograph lying on a table.
Her father.
Much younger.
Standing beside another man.
The second man resembled Deacon.
Older.
Harder.
But unmistakably family.
Behind them was a shipping yard.
Khalida’s fingers trembled.
“That’s my dad.”
“Yes.”
“Who’s beside him?”
“My father.”
She looked up.
“Why would Greg have this?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Sarah stared at the screen.
“Our father died twenty years ago.”
Deacon shook his head.
“Officially.”
Khalida’s stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Deacon hesitated.
Then he asked Sarah to step outside.
Khalida immediately said, “No.”
“This concerns her too.”
“I’m not separating from my sister because you suddenly decided secrets are polite.”
Deacon studied her.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
He closed the door.
“My father was killed nine years ago.”
Khalida waited.
“Before he died, he kept records on everyone who worked with him. Faris Darzi appeared in several.”
“What records?”
“Payments. Identities. emergency contacts.”
“And?”
“According to those records, your father was still receiving payments eight years after his supposed death.”
Sarah stopped breathing.
Khalida stared at him.
“No.”
“I’m not saying he was alive.”
“You just said—”
“I said someone was using his identity.”
The room fell silent.
Khalida looked again at the photograph.
Memories returned.
Her father teaching her chess.
Her father burning pancakes.
Her father kissing her mother before work.
She remembered the funeral.
Closed coffin.
Her mother screaming when Khalida asked to see him.
“We were told the crash was bad.”
Deacon spoke quietly.
“I checked the public records while you were being examined.”
Khalida looked up.
“There was a crash.”
“So?”
“No body was recovered.”
Her heart stopped.
Sarah sat down hard.
“What?”
“The report states the vehicle burned.”
“That’s why there was no body,” Khalida said.
“Maybe.”
“You think he survived?”
“I think somebody worked very hard to make it impossible to know.”
Khalida looked toward the window.
This was impossible.
Her entire life had been built around a death that suddenly seemed uncertain.
“Why would Greg care?”
Deacon’s gaze darkened.
“My enemies have been hunting something my father hid before he died.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
Khalida almost laughed.
“A ledger?”
“Not paper. Encrypted records. Names. Payments. government officials, corporations, criminal groups.”
“And you think my father had it?”
“I think Faris helped create it.”
Sarah whispered, “So Greg got close to Khalida because…”
“He believed she might lead him to it.”
Khalida felt sick.
Two years.
Every dinner.
Every apology.
Every “I love you.”
Had any of it been real?
The emotional wound somehow hurt more than her ribs.
“I was a target.”
Deacon did not soften the answer.
“Yes.”
“From the beginning?”
“Probably.”
She looked away.
Deacon moved toward the door.
“You need rest.”
Khalida laughed bitterly.
“My father might not have died when I was twelve, my boyfriend was apparently spying on me, and I accidentally texted a man connected to both. Sure. I’ll sleep.”
Deacon stopped.
“Your message wasn’t random.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“My phone number.”
Khalida looked at him.
“What about it?”
“I’ve had this number for eleven years.”
“So?”
“The digits differ from Sarah’s number by exactly one digit.”
Sarah looked confused.
Deacon continued.
“Your sister got her number six months ago.”
Khalida’s skin prickled.
“Okay.”
“That number previously belonged to someone else.”
“Who?”
Deacon looked directly at her.
“Your father.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Khalida stared.
“That’s impossible.”
Deacon took out his phone.
He opened an archived contact record.
A name appeared beside the number.
Faris Darzi.
Khalida felt the hospital bed disappear beneath her.
She had not simply mistyped Sarah’s phone number.
Some forgotten part of her memory had guided her fingers toward a number she had seen as a child.
A number her father had once used.
And somehow, years later, it belonged to Deacon Vale.
Sarah whispered, “How did you get Dad’s number?”
Deacon’s face became unreadable.
“My father gave it to me the night he died.”
A cold silence followed.
Khalida asked the only question that mattered.
“Why?”
Deacon looked toward the dark city.
“Because he told me that if anyone ever contacted that number using the name Darzi…”
He paused.
May you like
“…I was supposed to protect them at any cost.”
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