The clock in Noor's guest room ticked past midnight, each second echoing in the stillness. Layla lay awake, watching shadows dance across the ceiling as streetlight filtered through thin curtains. Sleep felt impossible with Fahad's threat weighing on her mind.
*Back off or the center won't be the only thing that burns.*
She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like armor against thoughts she couldn't escape. Her phone screen glowed in the darkness as she checked for messages—nothing new, but the silence felt more threatening than reassuring. She opened her email, thumb hovering over Principal Davis's ultimatum from Wednesday: disengage from the center by Monday, April 28, or lose her teaching position at Westridge Elementary.
The deadline loomed just days away, but after tonight, walking away seemed impossible. The center wasn't just a job or a cause—it had become her purpose, a lifeline for kids who needed someone to believe in them.
With trembling fingers, she drafted a resignation email:
*Dear Principal Davis,
I regret to inform you that I must resign from my position, effective immediately. My commitment to the youth center...*
Tears welled in her eyes. She saved the draft unfinished. She'd send it after tomorrow's board meeting—after she knew the center was safe.
Layla unrolled her prayer rug and performed Tahajjud, the night prayer. Her whispered duas formed a desperate plea.
"Ya Allah, safeguard the center. Protect Sana and Zayn. Give Idris strength. Show me the right path."
Her forehead pressed against the rug, finding momentary peace in submission, but as she climbed back into bed, distant sirens kept her nerves on edge.
---
In Glendale, Sana sat at the edge of the guest bed in Leila's house, watching Zayn sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily, toy car still clutched in his small hand. The room was cozy—quilted blanket, nightlight casting stars across the ceiling—but every house creak made her flinch.
Leila had insisted they were safe here, but Fahad's cold eyes near the masjid yesterday haunted her. She pulled out her phone, hesitating before texting Layla:
*We're at Leila's. Zayn's asleep, but I can't shake this feeling. Be careful today.*
She pressed send, stomach knotting with guilt for pulling Layla into this mess.
Downstairs, Leila pressed a warm mug of chamomile tea into Sana's hands.
"You should try to sleep," she said softly. "You're safe here, insha'Allah. The doors are locked, and I've got that nosy neighbor who watches everything like it's her job."
Sana managed a weak smile, grateful for the warmth spreading through her fingers. "I know, Leila. Thank you. I just... I keep thinking about the center. What if Fahad goes through with it?"
Leila's expression darkened. "People like Fahad—they thrive on fear. But you've got the community behind you now. And that Detective Hassan seemed competent. They'll catch him."
Sana nodded, wanting to believe her cousin but unable to quiet her racing heart. She sipped her tea and waited for Fajr, praying as the first light crept through the window.
---
Amina hadn't slept at all. After dropping Sana off, she'd returned to her apartment with Tariq's message about Fahad's car playing on repeat in her mind.
Now, at 3:00 AM, she sat at her kitchen table, laptop bathing her face in blue light as she scoured social media for any sign of Fahad or the hooded man. Her fingers trembled from exhaustion and too much coffee as she scrolled through community pages.
A post on a local masjid group caught her eye: *Anyone know Fahad Malik? He used to volunteer here, but I heard he's in trouble now.*
The comments were sparse, but one stood out: *He's got a brother, Imran, always wears a hoodie. They're bad news.*
Amina's breath caught—Imran. The hooded man. She screenshot the post and sent it to Detective Hassan:
*This might be the guy Sana saw with Fahad. Please check into it.*
By 5:00 AM, unable to sit still, she drove to the center. A police car still guarded the entrance, the broken window now boarded up. An officer waved her off, but not before she noticed the faint smell of gasoline lingering in the air.
Her stomach dropped as she texted Layla and Idris:
*I'm at the center. It's secure, but I smell gasoline. Be here early for the board meeting. We can't let our guard down.*
---
Idris woke at dawn, body aching from a restless night on his too-short couch. He'd insisted on sleeping at his own apartment to give Noor and Ahmed space, but the solitude had only amplified his worries.
He prayed Fajr, then dressed—choosing a simple gray thobe and jacket. Last night's conversation with Layla replayed in his mind, how her eyes had softened when he mentioned speaking to her parents. The thought gave him purpose, a light amid the chaos, but first, they had to survive today.
He arrived at Noor's house just after 7:00 AM. Layla sat at the kitchen table with Noor, cradling a coffee mug in both hands. Her face was pale, dark circles under her eyes, but she smiled when she saw him—a small, tired curve of lips that didn't reach her eyes.
"I didn't sleep much," she admitted, voice slightly hoarse. "Sana texted—she's safe, but scared. And Amina said there's a gasoline smell at the center."
Idris's jaw tightened, protective instincts flaring. "We'll handle it," he said firmly. "The police are there, and we'll be there for the board meeting. Fahad won't win this."
Noor set plates of toast and eggs before them. "You both need to eat," she insisted. "You can't fight on an empty stomach."
Layla picked at her food without appetite but forced down a few bites for Noor's sake. "Thank you, Noor," she said softly. "For everything."
As they ate, Idris glanced at Layla, expression serious. "I meant what I said last night," he said quietly. "About talking to your parents. But I also need you to know—I'll stand by you, whatever happens today. We're in this together."
Layla's throat tightened, gratitude and something deeper welling inside her. "I know," she whispered, her hand briefly touching his sleeve—a fleeting, permissible gesture that spoke volumes. "Let's get through the meeting first."
---
At 8:00 AM, Tariq arrived at the hardware store near the center. Detective Hassan had mentioned pulling security footage, but Tariq knew the store owner, Brother Saeed, from the masjid. A personal visit might speed things up.
The store was just opening, fluorescent lights flickering as Saeed unlocked the door.
"Assalamu alaikum, Brother Tariq," Saeed greeted with a smile. "What brings you here so early?"
"Wa alaikum assalam," Tariq replied, adjusting his glasses. "I need a favor. The police are investigating some red spray paint used in an attack at the youth center. They think it came from here. Could I see your security footage?"
Saeed's smile vanished. "Astaghfirullah, the center? Of course, come in."
He led Tariq to a cramped back office with a grainy security monitor. They rewound to Wednesday evening, scanning for anyone buying red spray paint.
"There," Tariq pointed. A man in a hoodie—tall, broad-shouldered—purchased two cans of red paint and rags. His face was obscured, but a tattoo marked his wrist: a crescent moon. "That's got to be him—the hooded man Sana saw."
Saeed nodded grimly. "I remember him. Paid cash, barely spoke. I'll copy this for the police."
As they waited for the footage to download, Tariq's phone rang—Detective Hassan.
"Tariq, we got your message about Imran," Hassan said urgently. "He's Fahad's younger brother, known for petty theft. We think he's the hooded man. But we've got a problem—Fahad's car was spotted near an abandoned warehouse on 5th Street. We're sending a team, but I need you to stay away. It's too dangerous."
Tariq's stomach dropped, but his resolve hardened. "I'm near the center already," he said. "I've got footage of the hooded man buying paint. I can drop it off at the warehouse—it's on my way."
"No, Tariq—" Hassan began, but Tariq had already hung up.
He thanked Saeed, took the USB drive, and drove toward the warehouse, heart pounding. He didn't notice the black Audi—Fahad's car—parked in the shadows, watching him.
---
The board meeting began promptly at 10:00 AM, tension palpable despite police presence outside. Brother Yusuf chaired, addressing the gathered members: Sister Mariam, Sister Fatima, and two others known for their integrity. Kareem was conspicuously absent.
"We have undeniable evidence of Fahad's intent to commit arson," Yusuf began, holding up the bagged brick from last night. "And Sana's documents confirm his embezzlement of the 2018 grant funds, alongside Kareem's complicity. We must vote to remove them both, effective immediately."
Sister Mariam, steel-gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, nodded firmly. "I second the motion. We cannot allow corruption to taint this center. The community deserves better."
The vote was unanimous. Sister Mariam was appointed interim president, her first act to draft a statement for the congregation after Jummah prayers. "We'll be transparent," she said, voice calm but resolute. "The community needs to know we're taking action."
Layla sat at the back, hands clasped tightly in her lap, mind still on the gasoline smell. Idris sat beside her, his presence a comfort though his eyes kept darting to the boarded window.
Amina arrived midway through, face pale as she whispered to Layla, "I heard from Tariq—he went to a warehouse to deliver footage. I have a bad feeling about this."
Layla's heart sank. "He shouldn't have gone alone," she whispered back. "We need to tell Detective Hassan."
Before they could act, Hassan burst into the room, expression grim. "We've got a situation," he said tightly. "Tariq was at a warehouse on 5th Street—he walked into a trap. Fahad and Imran were there. Tariq's injured but en route to the hospital. Fahad and Imran fled, but we've got the warehouse surrounded. I need everyone to stay here until we clear the area."
Layla gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Idris's arm instinctively went around her shoulders—a protective gesture that drew raised eyebrows but was quickly forgotten in the crisis.
"Is Tariq okay?" Layla asked, voice trembling.
"He's stable," Hassan assured her. "Took a blow to the head—Fahad had rigged crates to fall when the door opened. But he's conscious, and he confirmed Imran's tattoo—a crescent moon. It matches the footage."
The room erupted in worried murmurs. Layla thought of Sana—Fahad was still out there, and Sana was with Zayn in Glendale. She quickly texted:
*Fahad and his brother escaped. Lock the doors and don't open for anyone. Police are coming.*
---
At Leila's house, Sana's phone buzzed with Layla's message just as she finished feeding Zayn breakfast. Her heart seemed to stop as she read the words.
"Leila!" she called, voice shaking. "We need to lock everything—now!"
Leila rushed in, face paling as Sana explained. They bolted doors and windows, drawing curtains tight. As Sana turned to grab Zayn, a loud bang came from the back door—a heavy thud, like someone trying to break in.
Zayn screamed, clinging to her leg. Sana scooped him up, heart pounding as she backed into the hallway.
"Call the police!" Leila shouted, grabbing a kitchen knife with trembling hands.
Sana dialed 911, voice frantic as she reported the attempted break-in. "It's Fahad—he's here!" she cried, tears streaming as the banging grew louder.
Outside, a neighbor heard the commotion and also called police, spotting a hooded figure—Imran—fleeing the scene. Sirens wailed in the distance, but for Sana, each second stretched into eternity, her prayers a desperate whisper as she held Zayn close:
"Ya Allah, save us."