Heeriye

Eighteen.

Sidharth

I'm patrolling the halls in the East Wing. It's not even remotely in my job description and yet here I am, walking quietly down corridors that now belong to Shehnaaz and the kids.

I can smell her on the carpets and the walls. That faint citrus smell that haunts the air. Shoes lie haphazardly on all sides of the broad passageway and wayward toys are scattered like breadcrumbs leading to the playroom. A piece of paper hangs off my textured Venetian walls, secured there with... what the fuck is that?

Chewing gum?

Oh,hellfucking no.

I tear the paper free of the wall and then spend the next few minutes trying to scrape off the blue gunk that was holding it there. When it's as good as I can get it, I glance down at the canvas. From the colorful scribblings, I'd wager this is Ruhi's handywork. She's all about rainbows and unicorns these days. A typical five-year-old. In a very atypical setting.

Forget the handwoven Persian rug that lines the passageway; forget the bold Tuscan paintings on the walls—thisis a work of art.

I fold the picture up carefully and slip it into my pocket for safekeeping. Then I continue down the hall, trying to remember all the other scents I'd been partial to before my senses were invaded with notes of endless citrus.

I'm deep in my own thoughts when I hear something.

Screaming.

"Aaaarghhh. No. No. Please.... Ahh!"

Panic surges through my body. That scream is immediately recognizable.

Jahan.

And then I'm running. I'm running faster than I've ever run in my life.

Whoever breached through all the layers of security I've wrapped around this estate is gonna get a gold medal for doing the impossible and getting inside.

Right before I tear him apart—limb from goddamn limb.

I burst into the boy's room with my fists at the ready. But all I see is a frightened child writhing around in his bed.

It's not an invader.

It's a nightmare.

He's still thrashing in place when I approach his bed, his face scrunched up with anxiety. He's sweating right through the bedding. I put my hand on arm and give him a firm shake. He gasps, jerking upright, his arms flailing in every direction.

"It's okay. It's just me. Sidharth."

He pushes against my hold for a couple of seconds, still struggling in the thicket of his nightmare. I have to keep repeating myself before his eyes finally blink away the sleep and focus on me.

"S-Sidharth?" His voice is cracked with fear but there's relief muddled in there, too. "S-sorry," is the second thing out of his mouth.

"Why are you apologizing?"

He wraps his arms around himself. "I-I didn't mean to disturb anyone. I usually don't."

I frown. "Jahan, how often do you have these nightmares?"

The whites of his eyes are prominent in the gloom. "Most nights," he admits, dropping his face down low.

Why didn't Shehnaaz tell me about this? I'm so pissed off that the veins in my forearms bulge in protest. A part of me is aware that my anger is irrational. Kinda like it was two days ago when I overheard Shehnaaz's conversation with her mother.

I stood in the archway, eavesdropping unrepentantly as her mother tore into her about being a bad guardian and not putting the children first. At first, she fought back. But then, the more her mother yelled, the more Shehnaaz basically shut down. It was like she believed all the vile things her bitch of a mother was spouting. It was like she felt she had to sit there and take it.