"Your father didn't die of natural causes."
That single sentence replayed in my head like a viral TikTok sound I didn't ask for. Loud, on loop, and completely uninvited.
I hadn't slept since Idris dropped the bomb at the rooftop bar. Not because of the bombshell itself — no, that would be too normal. I hadn't slept because every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father's face… and then it vanished, replaced by blurry documents, a cryptic USB, and Idris's perfectly moisturized beard.
Yes, Idris still used shea butter like his life depended on it. Tragic.
I was pacing my living room like it was a crime scene reenactment. Zara sat on my couch with a face mask on and a bowl of popcorn, offering moral support the only way she knew how — by commenting like she was watching a Netflix original.
"So, we have the classic setup: hot ex-boyfriend returns with scandalous information, claims your father was murdered, hands over a flash drive, and expects you to trust him despite ghosting you like a shady courier service."
"Exactly," I snapped. "Why now? Why two years later?"
"Plot device, obviously," she deadpanned.
I shot her a look.
"Okay fine, maybe someone's getting close and he got scared. Or maybe he's trying to manipulate you."
"But what if it's real?" I asked, softer this time. "What if my dad didn't die peacefully like we thought?"
Zara set her popcorn down, her tone suddenly serious. "Then you owe it to him to find out."
---
I didn't know where to start, so I started with the only person I thought I could trust — Omar.
Yes, the blue-eyed, psychology-book-reading stranger who got my number from Ali under slightly stalkerish circumstances. He'd somehow gone from "possible red flag" to "reliable emergency contact" in under a week.
Therapist privilege, I guess.
When I texted him, he replied almost instantly:
Me: "Can I trust you?"
Omar: "You already did when you answered my call. What's going on?"
Me: "I think my father was murdered. I need help."
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in his car in a dimly lit hospital parking lot, like teenagers hiding from parents. Except we were both doctors, and technically the parents of every patient we cared for.
I handed him the flash drive like it was a bag of cash.
Omar didn't ask questions right away. He plugged it into his tablet, his brows furrowed as files loaded. Financial documents. Internal memos. Research notes. All connected to the Kora Foundation, a medical nonprofit I had never paid much attention to. My dad had mentioned them once in passing — said they were "doing too much with too little."
"What is this?" he asked.
"A non-profit involved in drug trials," I replied. "And apparently… in shady dealings. My dad was looking into it before he died."
He paused at one email. Subject line: "Patient L12 – Unreported Fatality." The message body was redacted, but the timestamp matched the week my dad died.
We both sat in silence.
Omar looked at me. "If this is legit, someone killed your dad to shut him up."
I nodded, numb. "And I think they know I have this."
---
Three days later, things started going... off.
First, my hospital locker was open. I always triple-checked it. Always. Inside, everything was intact — except my badge, which had been moved from the right pocket of my coat to the left.
Next, Ali avoided me. Literally ducked behind the counter when I walked into his restaurant. Which was hilarious, considering he's 6'4" and shaped like a Turkish tree.
When I confronted him, he wouldn't meet my eyes.
"He's back," Ali mumbled.
"Who?"
"Idris. He asked about you again. Said he wanted to explain more."
I scoffed. "I'm starting to think Idris is the conspiracy."
But the final straw came when Zara's car got keyed. Not just random scratches — but letters carved in neat, deliberate slashes:
"STAY QUIET."
That night, we didn't sleep. We created backups of the flash drive. I uploaded copies to two encrypted drives, one sent to my cousin in Canada and the other saved to an old MP3 player no one would dare steal in 2025.
Omar came over.
He brought pizza. And pepper spray.
"You think I need pepper spray?" I asked.
He looked at me seriously. "I think you need me with pepper spray."
Touché.
---
At 3 a.m., I couldn't take it anymore.
I called Idris.
"Meet me at the old Mosque downtown. Come alone."
I don't know why I picked the Mosque— maybe because it was always empty, maybe because guilt makes you do poetic things. Maybe because I wanted God as a witness.
He showed up, alone, wearing that same leather jacket from the last time we broke up. The one that still smelled like betrayal and oud perfume.
"You brought the flash drive?"
"No," I lied. "You talk first."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Your dad found out Kora was testing psychiatric drugs on unwilling patients. Mostly low-income, undocumented. They falsified consent. Covered up side effects. When he confronted them, they offered him money. He refused."
"So they killed him?"
"I don't know for sure. But I know they knew he wouldn't stop."
I studied him carefully. "And you? Where do you fit in?"
He hesitated. "I used to work with them. Briefly. Data analysis. That's how I met your dad."
That made sense. Dad was always skeptical of corporate researchers, but he'd give you a chance if you had an open mind and decent handwriting.
"So, what now?" I asked.
"You go to the press."
"You're not afraid anymore?"
"I'm terrified," he said, laughing bitterly. "But you deserve answers."
Suddenly, headlights cut through the church windows. A car pulling up fast.
"Are you expecting someone?" I asked.
He shook his head.
We ducked just as the doors opened.
Two men stepped out — dark suits, no visible IDs, the type who didn't ask for autographs.
Omar texted me at that exact moment:
"Nurain, get out. Your location's been leaked."
I grabbed Idris's hand — a reflex — and we bolted through the back of the mosque. My lungs burned, my legs shook, but I didn't stop.
By the time we made it to an alley, Idris bent over, gasping. "You always were the runner."
I punched his shoulder. "Shut up."
We jumped into a passing cab. I didn't look back. On getting to the a popular supermarket, both parted ways.
---
Back at home, I collapsed onto my bed.
Zara peeked out from the kitchen with a slice of bread in one hand and a butter knife in the other. Her face fell when she saw me.
"You look like you outran a hitman."
"Close," I muttered.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown Number.
I didn't want to answer.
I answered.
A digitally distorted voice said:
"Next time, we won't miss."
Click.
TO BE CONTINUED...