Chapter 14: Whispered Warnings and a Mug of Mint Tea
It was past midnight when the Istanbul wind shifted, curling around the narrow alleys of Fatih like a rumor. The air was crisp, and a faint drizzle had begun to paint the cobblestones with glistening patches. Inside their cozy Airbnb tucked away behind a jasmine-draped courtyard, warmth clung to the air like a protective embrace.
Imani sat curled up on the plush ottoman beside the window, her dark silk robe flowing gently around her legs. Her hair was loosely tied, a few strands grazing her cheekbones. The low hum of the heater mixed with the sound of Turkish classical music playing from Zara's phone, its rhythm unhurried like a heartbeat after prayer.
Zara, clad in a long beige hoodie and flared joggers, her hair in a bun and glasses perched low on her nose, was seated at the kitchen bar slicing fruit. "You always look like a 90s painting when you're pensive," she muttered, pushing a bowl of pomegranate seeds and kiwi slices toward Imani.
Imani smiled faintly. "You say that every time I'm not talking."
Zara shrugged. "It's always true. Now eat, before you start analyzing your own silence."
The air smelled of ginger, cloves, and mint. Imani leaned back, eyes skimming the ancient skyline outside the window. "Do you believe in signs, Zara?"
"Signs? Like traffic signs or signs from God?" Zara asked, leaning on the counter with one elbow.
"The second one."
Zara sighed. "Depends. If it's a cat crossing my path three times in one day, I might just check my horoscope for once."
They laughed softly, the moment temporarily melting Imani's anxiety. But her mind was a restless ocean. Somewhere between catching Omar whispering with a stranger near the Hagia Sophia and the sudden appearance of Idris, her past was tiptoeing back into view.
"I can't shake this feeling," Imani said, her voice a notch above a whisper. "Like something is watching me. Not just following... watching."
Zara's brows furrowed. "You're not just being paranoid, are you?"
"No. Omar's been acting... off. I think he's hiding something."
Zara sighed, walked over with two steaming mugs of mint tea, and handed one to Imani. "Then find out. You're a surgeon, Imani. Cut through the mystery."
They both chuckled at that, but it was a sobering reminder. Imani had always been good at solving others' puzzles. Her own, however, had layers—emotional sediment that clouded her logic.
A sudden knock at the door jolted them. Zara's expression shifted to alertness.
"It's past midnight. That's not room service," she said.
Imani's heartbeat picked up. She placed the mug down and walked barefoot across the wooden floor. She peered through the peephole.
It was Omar.
She hesitated, her fingers frozen on the lock.
Zara mouthed, "What?" and Imani gestured to the door.
Unlocking it slowly, she opened the door just wide enough for Omar to see her robe-clad figure. He looked disheveled, as if he'd sprinted across the Bosphorus.
"Can I come in? It's important," he said, his voice hoarse.
Zara appeared behind her, arms crossed.
Imani hesitated but nodded, stepping aside. Omar stepped in, water beading on his overcoat. His glasses fogged slightly, and he wiped them with his sleeve before looking up.
"I saw something tonight," he started, looking directly at Imani.
She nodded, slow. "Go on."
"I followed the man who's been watching you. He's not from any security company. He's not even pretending to be. He spoke Turkish, but he had a Syrian accent. He met with someone I've only seen in government archives—Nailah Rahman."
Imani's stomach dropped. The name rang like a bad chord in her chest. Nailah Rahman, a name whispered only in secret conversations among her father's old colleagues. An ex-operative turned philanthropist. Tied to the Kora Foundation—at least unofficially.
Zara gasped. "She's... she's supposed to be in Yemen. Hiding."
Omar nodded. "Exactly. But she's not. She's here. And she asked about you."
Imani sank into the couch. Her hand trembled as she lifted her mug again, this time spilling a bit of tea onto the floor.
"I need air," she whispered, grabbing a scarf from the hanger.
Zara blocked the door. "Not alone. We're coming."
---
The trio stepped into the Istanbul night, its drizzle now a light mist. The scent of roasted chestnuts wafted from a nearby vendor, mixing with the sharp tang of sea salt. They walked in silence, shoes crunching softly over wet cobblestones.
They found a quiet bench near the Suleymaniye Mosque, under the shadow of its elegant minarets. The domes glowed in the dim moonlight, a vision of serenity amid chaos.
Imani turned to Omar. "You need to tell me everything now. No more cryptic breadcrumbs."
Omar looked torn, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
"I was hired to investigate the person investigating your father. But the more I dug, the more I realized it wasn't about your father at all. It was about you."
Imani blinked. "Why me?"
"Because you're next. The Kora Foundation isn't what your father thought it was. And your mother—" he hesitated.
Zara leaned in. "What about her?"
"She's not just involved. She's on the board."
Silence.
Imani felt the wind whip through her scarf, her skin prickling.
"That's impossible," she said, voice barely audible.
"I saw it myself. Internal memos, photos. She goes by a pseudonym—Lamia Noor. She's been using that name for years."
Imani stood up, visibly shaken. Her tea mug tumbled to the pavement.
"Do you want to hear the worst part?" Omar said.
"No," Imani snapped. "Not tonight."
But he continued. "Your father—he might have faked his death to protect her. Or from her."
Imani's knees buckled slightly, and she sat back down.
Zara rubbed her back. "Imani... this is a lot."
She nodded slowly, then looked up at the night sky. "I think I need to find her. Talk to her. See her face when I mention the name Lamia Noor."
Omar sighed. "That won't be easy. She's been off-grid for weeks. She might already know we're onto her."
Imani looked at him, her eyes suddenly sharp. "Then we'll have to make her come to us."
---
Back in the apartment, Imani sat with her notebook open, drawing connections like a detective mid-investigation. Omar hovered nearby, watching her scribble furiously. Zara was in the kitchenette, making tea again, this time with cardamom and cloves.
"There's a gala tomorrow night," Omar said. "Kora-linked event. A silent auction. Nailah might show. If your mother's really involved, she won't be far."
Imani looked up. "Then we'll be there."
She looked over at Zara. "Help me pick something fierce. I want them to remember me."
Zara grinned. "I've got just the thing."
She walked into the bedroom and came back with a navy velvet dress, long-sleeved, backless, and flowing like water. "It was supposed to be my 'I meet my Istanbul love' dress... but I think this is more important."
Imani smiled faintly, touching the fabric. "Thank you."
Zara winked. "Besides, now you owe me a vacation in Zanzibar."
They all laughed, the tension briefly broken.
Then, Imani's phone buzzed. A single message.
Unknown Number: You're getting too close. Stop digging or someone else gets buried.
Imani froze, showing Omar and Zara.
Zara swallowed hard. "What now?"
Imani's eyes sharpened, resolve hardening like steel. "Now... we go louder."
---
The next night, Imani stood at the top of the grand staircase of the gala hall, draped in navy velvet and diamonds like icicles around her ears. The orchestra played softly in the background. Omar stood by her side, looking sharp in a black tux, while Zara trailed behind, holding a compact camera cleverly disguised as a clutch.
Across the ballroom, a woman in deep green silk—poised, elegant, and hauntingly familiar—turned, locking eyes with Imani.
It was her mother.
Not timid. Not lost. Not broken.
But powerful.
And smiling.