The note—"Trust no one"—lay on Layla's desk, its stark words pulsing in the quiet of her room. She traced the blocky handwriting with her fingertip, connecting it to the whispered voicemail: "You're too close." The memory of the hooded figure's gaze and Amina's trashed studio made her shiver despite the morning warmth.
Her phone chimed with an email notification. Principal Davis again. Her stomach clenched as she opened it, expecting the worst.
---
**From:** Principal Davis
**To:** Layla Mahmoud
**Subject:** FINAL EXTENSION - Youth Center Involvement
Ms. Mahmoud,
After receiving Sister Fatima's reference letter highlighting your contributions to the community, I've decided to grant you a final opportunity to resolve this matter.
You have until Monday, April 28th to disengage from the youth center dispute or provide evidence that your involvement will not disrupt our school environment. This is non-negotiable.
I expect your written response by that date.
Regards,
Principal Davis
---
Layla's breath caught. Six days. Sister Fatima had bought her time—not much, but enough to potentially unravel what was happening. She glanced at her calendar where she'd circled Friday's interview at Westside Academy. Now she had options, however slim.
She knelt on her prayer mat, the dawn light filtering through her window, and whispered a dua: "Ya Allah, shield me from betrayal. Guide me through this storm."
Outside, the neighborhood woke—vendors rolled carts of fresh bread, their calls melodic in the morning chill; kids raced to catch the school bus, backpacks bouncing; the Fajr prayer call faded into the hum of waking streets. But the note's warning turned every glance into a potential threat, every rustle a spy.
She couldn't just rely on Idris's vague assurances or let Omar's audit drown her. She texted Amina, attaching a photo of the note:
*Found this under my door last night. What's Tariq got on the camera? Meet at the café, 9 AM?*
Amina replied almost instantly:
*That's chilling, Layla. Tariq's got a lead on the signal. I'll be there. You holding up ok?*
The concern in her friend's message warmed her. Layla hesitated, then typed:
*Principal Davis gave me till Monday to quit the center or kiss my job goodbye. Sister Fatima's letter bought me time but I'm barely treading water.*
Then she texted Idris:
*Your dad's files—anything on Sana? Masjid study circle, 2 PM? Amina's coming too. Got a deadline from Principal Davis now.*
His response was quick:
*Assalamu alaikum, Layla. 2 PM works. I found something about Sana—and Malik. Will share. Don't lose hope.*
The "and Malik" made her heart skip. Finally, something concrete?
---
The community café was a morning haven, its wooden tables crowded with students on laptops, aunties sipping chai between gossip, the air rich with cardamom and fresh bread. Layla sat in a booth, adjusting her maroon hijab, Principal Davis's email and the mysterious note competing for attention in her mind.
Amina arrived, her eyes tired but alert, Tariq beside her, his laptop tucked under his arm.
"You look like you haven't slept," Layla said as they slid into the booth.
Amina rubbed her eyes. "Been up helping Tariq track that camera signal. Show me the note."
Layla slid it across, the paper creased but stark. Tariq leaned in, his beard neatly trimmed, caffeine fumes rising from his extra-large coffee.
"The camera's signal—it's pinging from an abandoned shop two blocks from the center," he said, pulling up a map. "Old electronics store, boarded up since last summer. Sana might be using it as a base. I'm checking the voicemail's burner phone next—might tie to the same spot."
Layla's heart raced, remembering Brother Yusuf's warning about Sana near her house.
"She's too close for comfort," Layla said, her voice tight. "The note, the camera, the voicemail—she seems to be everywhere at once."
Amina's fingers twisted her scarf, her sketchbook untouched. "Tariq's friend is scoping the shop tonight. But Layla, this note—'Trust no one'—it's not just Sana. Someone else could be pulling strings."
Layla nodded, fear coiling tighter. "Principal Davis gave me until Monday to either quit the center or lose my job. Six days to figure this all out." She pulled out her phone to show them the email.
"That's messed up but... not terrible news?" Amina ventured. "It buys you time."
"Time I wouldn't have without Sister Fatima," Layla said. "But what good is time if we can't put the pieces together?"
---
The masjid study circle that afternoon brought a momentary peace—a dozen women in a carpeted room, Qur'ans open, the air soft with recitation. Amina sat nearby, her presence a chaperone's comfort, her eyes watchful. When Idris entered, several aunties exchanged knowing glances that made Layla's cheeks warm.
He wore a navy thobe, his leather bracelet catching the light, but his face carried a new weight. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd been up digging through files all night.
"Assalamu alaikum, Layla," he said, sitting across from her at a low table. "I went through my dad's files until 3 AM—found something on both Sana and Malik."
He slid a folded letter across, yellowed and creased, dated 2018. Layla opened it, her pulse quickening. Sana's handwriting accused Idris's father of sabotaging her program, claiming he redirected funds meant for her initiative.
"She sent this to the board," Idris said, voice low. "It's angry, but there's no proof of her claims. My dad swore it was a budget cut, nothing more."
He pulled out a second document—a financial statement with Malik's signature. "But here's where it gets interesting. Malik was on the finance committee that approved the budget cut. A month later, he invested in my dad's real estate venture—the one that failed."
Layla's eyes widened. "So Malik helped cut Sana's funding, then immediately went into business with your father?"
Idris nodded, his eyes troubled. "It doesn't prove wrongdoing, but the timing... I can't ignore it. Dad's refusing to discuss it—says I'm betraying family by digging."
The letter's venom stung, but this connection between Malik and Idris's father ignited new questions.
"And you had no idea?" Layla pressed, the note's warning—"Trust no one"—still echoing.
"I knew Malik was an investor, but not about his role in Sana's program cuts," Idris said, his voice strained. "I swear, Layla. I'm still searching for what happened to the money, but my dad's locked some files in his office safe."
His sincerity seemed genuine, but doubts lingered like shadows.
Amina signaled it was time to leave, and Layla stood, heart heavy with new information. "Keep digging, Idris," she said. "Principal Davis gave me until Monday to decide whether to leave the center or lose my job. I need answers before then."
His eyes widened. "Monday? That's... something, at least. Better than an immediate firing."
"Sister Fatima's reference letter bought me time," Layla explained. "But I'm running out of it fast."
---
That evening, Layla attended a community meeting, the youth center's auditorium packed with familiar faces, the air tense with whispers of the audit's start. Omar stood at a podium, his suit perfectly tailored, his voice smooth as honey but twice as sticky.
"The audit's underway," he announced, eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Preliminary findings show discrepancies in 2018 grants—tied to certain board members."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, eyes darting to Idris's father, seated in the front row, his face ashen. Whispers swelled—"He's done for," "No wonder Sana's mad"—as Omar's influence seemed to tighten around the room like a noose, his gaze flicking to Layla, a clear challenge in his eyes.
Layla's stomach knotted. Everything was connected—Sana's letter, Malik's investment, Omar's audit targeting 2018 specifically. She slipped out, needing air, the neighborhood's dusk heavy with the call to Maghrib prayer.
At home, she sat at her laptop and applied for a new teaching position at a community school across town, her hopes fragile after the last rejection. The application asked about community involvement, and her youth center role raised red flags in her mind—would this dispute follow her everywhere? She submitted it anyway, heart sinking, knowing her ties to the controversy might doom her chances again.
She called Amina, unable to sit with her thoughts alone.
"Omar's audit is specifically targeting 2018—the exact year of Sana's letter and Malik's investment," Layla said, pacing her bedroom. "This can't be coincidence."
Amina's voice was taut with excitement. "Tariq's friend found a burner phone in that shop—same model as the voicemail. And get this—there's a notebook with your schedule written out. Days, times, routes you take. It's definitely Sana, Layla—she's been tracking you."
Layla's breath caught, her free hand steadying herself against the wall. "She's been stalking me? How did she even know about Principal Davis threatening my job?"
"That's what's scary—she seems to have eyes everywhere," Amina said. "Stay vigilant and don't go anywhere alone. I'm serious."
Her parents called her to the living room after dinner, the air thick with tension, the scent of her mother's cardamom tea filling the space. Her father paced, his face stern, prayer beads clicking between his fingers.
"Layla, this audit, these threats—it's getting too dangerous," he said, voice sharp with concern. "I'm speaking to the elders tomorrow. You need to step away from that center and from Idris, or I'll have to intervene more directly."
Her mother, seated on the sofa, her bangles clinking softly as she set down her teacup, tried a gentler approach. "Beta, have you prayed istikhara about all this?" she asked, eyes searching Layla's face. "Your heart seems torn. Allah guides those who seek guidance. I saw the truth in your father through patience—test Idris if you must, but be wise."
Layla's chest tightened, their pressure adding to Principal Davis's deadline. "I'm praying, Ammi," she said, voice small. "I need answers before Monday. Principal gave me until then to decide."
Her mother's eyebrows rose. "A deadline? That's something, at least."
"It's not enough," her father countered. "This whole situation grows more dangerous by the day."
---
At the halal market later, grabbing milk and bread for breakfast, the aisles dimly lit and nearly empty before closing, Sister Halima, a neighbor in her sixties, stopped her with a gentle touch on the arm.
"Layla, I saw that Sana woman yesterday near the masjid," she said, voice hushed. "She was arguing with a man—tall, wearing a hood. The fight looked heated."
Layla's heart pounded against her ribs, the hooded figure from weeks ago now connected to Sana directly. "Did you hear what they were arguing about?"
Sister Halima shook her head. "They went quiet when they saw me. But she looked furious, jabbing her finger at his chest. Be careful, beti."
"Thank you, Sister," Layla said, hurrying to the checkout, eyes constantly scanning the darkening streets on her way home.
---
At the masjid for Isha prayer, Layla sought out Sister Fatima to thank her for the reference letter. She found the older woman in the women's section, the space quieter now as most had left after prayers.
"I can't thank you enough," Layla said, sitting beside her. "Your letter bought me until Monday."
Sister Fatima smiled gently. "Use the time wisely, child. Have you learned anything new?"
Layla hesitated, then decided to trust the woman who had helped her. "Sana's pain seems to run deeper than we thought. Her program's collapse apparently involved Idris's father and Malik."
Sister Fatima nodded slowly. "Her program meant everything to her—she lost family support when it failed, became isolated. Her anger has festered into something dangerous, I fear. Seek truth, but tread carefully, Layla."
The warning echoed the note too closely for comfort.
Layla's istikhara prayer that night felt different—a sense of clarity beginning to form amid the danger, like the first rays of sun through storm clouds.
At home, double-checking her locks, nerves still raw from all she'd learned, she paused at her window. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie—the same build as the one who'd been watching her weeks ago—slipped a small package under her neighbor's door and vanished into the night.
Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
*You're digging too deep, Layla. Monday won't save you or the center. Back off now.*
Her hand trembled as she showed the message to her father, who immediately called the police. As they waited, her phone chimed with another text—this one from Sana herself:
*We need to talk. Alone. Tomorrow night, 8 PM at the abandoned shop. Come alone or what I know about Malik and Omar goes public—and your precious center burns to the ground.*
The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they formed was more terrifying than Layla had imagined. Sana, Malik, Omar, and Idris's father—all connected in a web she was now caught in. With Principal Davis's Monday deadline looming, she had less than a week to untangle the truth before losing everything she'd worked for.
And now Sana wanted to meet—alone.