Thursday, September 15, 6:15 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Khadi had been thinking about her parents all morning.

What do I do about this Bryson thing? I can’t let him proceed with any actions. He’s got enough connections in government to push a prosecution through, or at least an investigation. Who knows? He might even get Andrews in on it—a little revenge for his own failed attempts at me.

I’m sure I could end the whole thing with one word to Scott. He and a few of the ops guys would be glad to give Bryson a late-night visit that would ensure the matter was never mentioned again. But can I really put him and the rest of the guys at risk like that?

Untouched, the corn flakes in the bowl in front of her slowly softened in the milk. A spoon, which would eventually be returned clean to the drawer, lay next to the bowl. Khadi knew she should eat, knew that today was going to be a tough one and that she’d need all the energy she could get, but still the milk warmed as the flakes wilted.

Got to get it out of your mind! You’ve got too much on your plate for today. Focus on happier things—happier times.

Right now, my family is having a big suhoor meal, gathering their strength in order to endure the struggles of the first day of the fast. Even though it’s a solemn occasion, I can still picture my mom’s smile and my dad’s loving winks. They’ll eat together; they’ll pray together; then my dad and brothers will go off to the mosque. That’s when the real fun at home will begin. At the Faroughi household, most of the rest of the day would be spent laughing and playing as the family prepared the iftar feast for tonight.

While she slowly dipped a teabag in and out of a mug, reminiscences of the past danced in her mind’s eye—the mayhem of flour fights that would break out among the ladies of the extended family, the laughter and the blushing of the younger girls because her mom’s sharp wit had struck again, the hugs, the accidental brushes, the impromptu neck massages, the kisses, the touches . . . You know, that’s what I think I’m missing most—the touches.

She let the teabag sink to the bottom of the mug and dangled the string over the lip. The world of a single, career-driven woman was typically not one of a lot of physical contact—at least not the kind that was welcome. Of course, there were plenty of ways to feel touch, and plenty of men out there ready to give it. Maybe that’s what this whole relationship with Jonathan is about—I just need to be touched by someone. And he does seem to really care for me.

But that’s not what I really need. I need to feel arms of love around me. Touch that’s backed by more than just emotion or passion. I want to feel the touch that comes from history, experience, blood, soul—from people who know me through and through and still love me—my folks, my family, old friends . . . Riley.

She laughed softly to herself. There you go again—pining like a schoolgirl. What’s done is done, and you did it. Think of how many other women across the country are sitting right now at their tables thinking of the wondrous Riley Covington, wishing they could meet him, imagining what life would be like to be Mrs. Covington, totally unaware that in real life . . . well, in real life he’s even better than they’re probably imagining. How many of them would give everything to have had the chance with him that you had, and that you blew?

Taking the string from her cup, she began to wind it tightly around her left index finger, turning the tip of her finger a dark red. When it was fully wound, she used a spoon to press the excess water out of the tea bag. Satisfied that she had excised every last drop from the pouch, she held it over a paper towel she had folded into quarters and let it drop. It quickly unraveled as it fell until it hit the end of the string with a bounce and a spin. After letting it rotate for a few moments, she rested it on the paper square.

She didn’t know when in her childhood she had started this little ritual. She just knew that tea didn’t taste like tea if she didn’t get a chance to drop that little pouch. Her mom used to gently tease her as together they’d watch the bag spin. The only difference between the ritual now and then is that this teabag was destined for the trash. Growing up, it would have gone into one of three bowls marked first, second, and third. Her mom insisted on not throwing away a teabag until it had its full four uses wrung out of it—a practical holdover from the spare years following their flight from Iran in the late 1970s.

Khadi smiled sadly as she thought of the watery tea that her family would probably be drinking today. Oh, I miss them, she thought as she took a sip from her mug, then carried it to the sink, where she poured it out.

At least I know they’re thinking of me. As she collected her uneaten cereal and dumped that down the sink too, she wondered, What do they think of me? They say they’re proud of me. But I still know that Dad wanted me to be a doctor. And Mom’s always worried that I’m going to get myself killed.

After running the garbage disposal and placing the bowl and mug on the top rack of the dishwasher, she walked to her bedroom and pulled a rug from her closet. But I really do think they’re proud. “And that one is our Khadija, the one who’s always out saving the world,” she’d overheard her dad saying to some people at a fund-raiser she had attended with her family. Funny how that’s stuck with me these last couple of years.

After rolling out the rug on the living room floor, she went into the bathroom. Without plugging the drain, she started the water in the tub. First one foot, then the other went under the water for a thorough scrubbing. Next, her arms and hands took the plunge.

Following a quick dry with a towel, she padded back into the living room, turned off all the lights, and knelt on her prayer rug. The sun was just coming up, and the new light of dawn began to drive the shadows from the room.

Banishing all other thoughts from her mind, she began to recite a prayer that she had prayed on this special morning ever since she was old enough to speak—a du’a of commitment for the first day of Ramadan:

“Allah, on this day make my fast the fast of those who fast sincerely and my standing up in prayer of those who stand up in prayer obediently. Awaken me in it. . . .”