The Widow's Keeper Read online

  ACCOLADES FOR THE SECOND WIFE

  Amazon 2016 Kindle Book Awards WINNER

  The McGrath House Independent Book Awards 2016 WINNER

  Maggie Award for Excellence FINALIST

  B.R.A.G. Medallion HONOREE

  "This book goes to dark places but the healing interactions between all the people who love Alisha are achingly tender and the heart of the story." ~NPR

  "Paul places the violence in direct contrast to Alisha's Indian family, who have taken David deeply into their hearts, and who serve as his strength while he copes with her disappearance." ~Sonali Dev, Award Winning Author

  "The Second Wife is one of those rare novels that will lurk in the back of your mind for weeks. With stunning precision, Kishan Paul throws the reader into a world of clandestine organizations and brutal politics. The gripping characters wrench your heart and make you cringe with fear. A rollercoaster of suspense and emotion not to be missed." ~Aubrey Wynne, Bestselling and Award Winning Author

  “I cannot think of another book I’ve read this year that moved me, made me gasp or still make me full of emotions days after reading it. So thank you Kishan Paul, this book was my favorite and will be one I will re-read often to feel the feels and emotions again.” ~Guilty Pleasures Book Review

  BOOK 2 OF THE SECOND WIFE SERIES

  KISHAN PAUL

  Kishan Paul Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Accolades For The Second Wife

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Intervention

  Chapter Two: Fighting Demons

  Chapter Three: The Visitor

  Chapter Four: Breast Desensitization Therapy

  Chapter Five: The Escort

  Chapter Six: The Sex Tape

  Chapter Seven: The Flight

  Chapter Eight: Italy

  Chapter Nine: Germany

  Chapter Ten: It’s Show Time

  Chapter Eleven: The Kidnapper

  Chapter Twelve: Good-bye

  Chapter Thirteen: The Hotel

  Chapter Fourteen: Blame

  Chapter Fifteen: The Reunion

  Chapter Sixteen: Karma

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter Seventeen: Choices

  Chapter Eighteen: Our Past

  Chapter Nineteen: Bomb Detection

  Chapter Twenty: A Welcome Face

  Chapter Twenty-One: A Dishonorable Discharge

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Two Hundred Seconds

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Questions and Answers

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Razaa

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Lie

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Ring

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Search

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Shadow

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Gift

  Chapter Thirty: The Truth

  Chapter Thirty-One: New Clothes

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Trust No One

  Chapter Thirty-Three: The Chat

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Path to Success

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Light Reading

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Preparing for Company

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Alyah and Aadam

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Guest of Honor

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Questions

  Chapter Forty: The Escape

  Chapter Forty-One: Aadam

  Chapter Forty-Two: Prayers

  Chapter Forty-Three: Negotiations

  Chapter Forty-Four: Promises Kept

  Epilogue

  Are you part of Kish's Collective yet?

  Keep in touch with Kishan Paul

  Also by Kishan Paul

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Read The Widow’s Keeper

  Kish’s Collective

  Newsletter

  Other books by Kishan Paul

  About the Author

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. It is an infringement on the copyright of this work to do so.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The Widow’s Keeper: Book 2 of The Second Wife Series

  Copyright © 2017 by Kishan Paul

  ISBN: 9780998529400

  Edited by Tera Cuskaden Norris and The Editing Hall

  Cover by Original Syn

  Formatting by Anessa Books

  DEDICATION

  To the wounded souls: Your pain is not always visible but it is very real. I hope you find joys along the way to ease the ache.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Widow’s Keeper has been by far the hardest book I have ever written. As difficult as it was, I could not have done it without the help of so many.

  First and foremost, I am thankful to God and HIS many blessings.

  To my amazing husband and kids: Never underestimate the power of family, and thank you for being the strong force within me. (And yes, those were awful Star Wars references.) But seriously, I love you and thank God every day for gifting you to me. I could not do what I love if it wasn’t for you.

  To my fans: The Second Wife was turned down over sixty times by agents and publishers before I finally decided to publish it myself. I was told it was too dark. Too hard to sell. Thank you for seeing the beauty in the darkness that is Ally and Dave’s story. Thank you for loving them as much as I did. I am humbled daily by your encouragement, your messages, and comments on social media, and your love for the stories and characters that fill my brain. It still shocks me that you buy my books, write reviews, and tell your friends about my stories. Thank you! You are the reason I continue to write.

  To my fabulous pundits: One of the best parts about being a writer is meeting people with crazy cool jobs and having an excuse to ask them about what they do. There were so many components to this story where I had to do just that, and it was fascinating. To Craig S. Swafford LCDR SEAL, USN (Ret.) for teaching me about guns/weapons, surveillance, and on how a soldier might think. To Holly Fox, former Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and former Hidalgo County Assistant Criminal District Attorney, for educating me on proper surveillance and protocol, and what is realistic and what’s not. To Bindhu Oommen for letting me text you with different medical scenarios and not being freaked out by my how do you kill people questions.

  To Nicole Ulery, my ever-patient author’s assistant: Thank you for pushing me and reminding me on a regular basis just how much time had passed since I published The Second Wife. Your frequent reminders made me glue my butt to the chair and write this story. You have taken a heavy weight off my shoulders, and by doing so, I am able to focus on what I love most—writing. Thank you for all that you do and for being you.

  To my editors: Tera Cuskaden Norris and Chris Hall. You have been a part of The Second Wife journey since Book 1. What would I do without you two? Thank you for calling me on the parts of the story that made no sense, on pushing me to go deeper, on challenging me. By doing so, you have made me a better storyteller and writer. Also thank you for being patient with my comma abuse. I am not even going to lie and tell you I will get better.

  To my beta readers: For your critical eye and your honesty: Renee R, April Stone, Kristen Sanchez, and Jennifer Daniels. You were the first to lay eyes on this story and it wasn’t pretty. Thank you for pointing out the plot holes and making it more authentic.

/>   To Kish’s Collective: I swear you folks are awesome. Thank you for being the monkeys in my circus. I am humbled every day by your words and encouragement. Thank you for believing in me. Love you guys!!

  PROLOGUE

  TWO YEARS AND TEN MONTHS POST-SAYEED

  Razaa ran a hand through his thick, black hair and knocked on the hotel room door. He scanned the hall of the five-star building as questions flooded his brain. What if he had the wrong address? Or for that matter, what if he had the right one and the man turned him away? He answered each question the same: Those were risks he had no choice but to take.

  Over two and a half years ago, the life he considered blessed vanished. His father was murdered, and he and his fourteen brothers were ripped apart, scattered across the globe. Forced to live with strangers and take on new identities, he had no contact with the rest. But if their situation had turned out even half as bad as his, he could only imagine the brutality they endured. Marks of his one year with his foster family were forever imprinted not only on his body but seared into his mind.

  A few yards down, a door slammed shut, making the nervous young man jump. He sucked in a breath and knocked a second time. If he could survive the past two and a half years, he could survive the next few minutes. Somehow, he managed to escape his hell only to enter another. He traveled the world as a migrant worker searching for the familiar faces of his family. Food and money were scarce and the beatings plentiful. The memories of pain flooded him, making his eyes prickle and burn with emotion. He blinked to cool the heat and kept his gaze fixed on the hardwood surface in front of him.

  When the deadbolt slid, his heart tried to leap out of his throat. Razaa swallowed it down and rolled his shoulders back. Very soon, he’d come face to face with his only hope.

  A man well over six feet tall opened the door, naked, except for a towel wrapped around his waist. His deep black curls hung to his light brown shoulder. Drops from the damp hair spilled onto his muscular, bare chest.

  “Can I help you?” His words were spoken with an English accent.

  Razaa’s hopes fell, as did his face. “I am sorry, I must be at the wrong place,” he stammered and walked away.

  “Aap kaon hain?” The question made him stop in his tracks. He asked the same question as before, but this time in Urdu. The sound of it sent a jolt of calm through Razaa’s anxious soul. It felt like home. He turned to face the stranger. “I have lost my family, and I need your help finding them.”

  The man leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. A smile tugged at his mouth. “And why would I help you?”

  He fisted his hands to hide the way they shook and said the words he’d practiced. “Because I am Razaa Irfani. Your brother was my father.”

  The man’s smile dropped but he didn’t move.

  The young boy crossed his arms, matching his uncle’s stance, trying hard to be the man his father raised. Inside however, fear squeezed his throat, making it difficult to breathe much less speak. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing by showing up at the man’s hotel room, but he was desperate. This wasn’t just about saving himself, it was about saving his family.

  As if reading his mind, the man nodded and pushed away from the wall. “Come in, Razaa Irfani.”

  He gulped down his excitement and followed. Razaa learned long ago to never get his hopes up. Like the sun, they were fleeting.

  The hotel room was enormous. A sofa bigger than the cots he’d slept on most of his life sat in the middle of the space, along with two matching armchairs. At the far corner was an open door. Razaa caught a glimpse of a woman asleep on the bed inside.

  “Excuse me for a moment while I change,” the man said before entering the dark backroom and shutting the door behind him, leaving Razaa alone.

  He stayed glued to the floor until his uncle returned a few minutes later. Thankfully, he now wore pants and a shirt. The man sat on the chair and rested his bare feet on the coffee table in front of him. “We both know my brother did not have a son your age, and I don’t have a lot of time for this nonsense. So tell me quickly what you want and be off.”

  “I may not be his blood, but he will always be my father.” Razaa stuffed his fists in his pant pockets and cleared his throat. “Sayeed Babba adopted me and fourteen other boys from an orphanage in Islamabad a few years before he died. He loved us as his own.” The man rested his elbows on his chair and pressed his chin on the tips of his fingers. “I am aware of the boys my brother adopted. I am also aware they died two and a half years ago with him.”

  “Nay, Chacha. We did not die.” Razaa noticed the way the man’s brows lifted as soon as he called him uncle. He ignored it and continued, “We were separated, given new names, and sent to live with different strangers.” His face warmed with emotion. “I have searched for the others, but I don’t know where they are. If their lives are as hard as mine, I must find them.”

  “And what makes you think I’d believe you, much less help you?”

  Emotion filled Razaa’s eyes. “When my brothers and I would fight, Babba would tell us about you two and your lives together in Karachi. He told us you never fought with him but that you admired him. He wanted us to be like you and him.” The young boy’s throat tightened. He cleared it and forced out the words. “And we were. We may have been adopted, but we were as close as brothers could be. Chacha, I need your help finding my family.”

  “Don’t call me that,” the man snapped.

  The tone startled Razaa, but he tried not to show it.

  “Call me Shariff.” He waved at the sofa. “And sit down.”

  He slid on to the edge of the couch, keeping his focus on the man.

  “So tell me, Razaa, if you and all your brothers are alive, what happened to your Sayeed Babba? Did the As-Sirat not kill him?”

  Heat prickled at the back of his neck. Memories of that day, and of his father’s bullet ridden body, tortured him. “He is dead but not by the As-Sirat.”

  Shariff sat motionless for a long while, making Razaa wonder if he should repeat what he said.

  “If the As-Sirat did not kill him, then who?”

  Razaa cleared his throat. “His wife.”

  Shariff laughed. “My brother was killed by his wife?”

  The disbelieving smirk on his face made the young man shift in his seat. “Yes, Cha...Shariff.”

  “What was her name?”

  Muscles in his body tightened at the prospect of uttering the name of the woman he’d tried to block from his mind since the murder. “Sara.”

  Shariff’s brows. “Sayeed Irfani was murdered by his second wife?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  INTERVENTION

  THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS POST-RESCUE

  Ally gripped the phone to her ear and paced the bathroom. The automated voice on the other end thanked her for her call and promised to return it as soon as possible. Considering she’d heard the same message every day for the past four months, she knew the number and the man’s words by heart. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and sucked in a breath as the message beeped.

  “Good morning. This is Alisha Dimarchi. Wife of David Dimarchi. Calling. Again. I’m following up on the status of the investigation around my husband’s death.” As usual, her voice cracked at the last few words. She cleared it and continued. “I’ve left several messages and would appreciate a response, please, to let me know I’m contacting the right person.”

  She’d recited the same words more times than she could count; sometimes they were spoken politely, other times they were filled with emotion she couldn’t hide. There was no doubt the agency had her contact information, but she provided it again before the message beeped a second time and the line disconnected.

  Ally slid the phone to the counter and willed it to ring as she paced the room. Although in the message she called it an investigation, it didn’t appear anyone else viewed it the same way. The police had already closed the case, citing no evidence of foul pl
ay in the crash that killed him. No one seemed bothered with trying to understand why her husband had slammed on his brakes and parked his car in the middle of the road in the first place.

  The only witness, a shadowy figure in a dark hoodie, had vanished. A nearby store’s video showed the person running down the sidewalk seconds after the incident. No other footage of the individual or incident existed.

  It was a person no one seemed interested in finding because, as far as the detectives were concerned, her husband voluntarily stopped his car and as a result was rear-ended. And for most people, their logic would have been enough. But most people didn’t know David. And most people hadn’t been kidnapped and taken to another country. Most people hadn’t been tortured and raped for two years. Most people hadn’t clawed their way out of hell only to lose the man they loved three years to the day after they’d escaped.

  Ally smoothed out the white card in her fist and returned it to the spot under the box of Q-tips in David’s drawer. She’d found it there days after the crash. Her fingers brushed against the container. He usually hogged most of the countertop and took longer getting ready than she did. A smile tugged at her lips. Funny how the things she once found annoying she now ached for.

  A knock at the bathroom door brought her out of her thoughts.

  “Ally Bayti, breakfast is ready.” Her father’s gentle voice echoed through the thin wood separating her from them. Instead of calming her, her muscles tightened.

  Privacy was a luxury she no longer enjoyed. Her parents moved in the day she lost David and hadn’t left her side since—no matter how many times she’d asked, begged, or ordered them to do so. They worried she’d hurt herself and scrutinized every move she made and every word she uttered. She knew this because their voices floated through the thin walls of her apartment. Even the fan in her bathroom, the one place in the house where she could hide from them, did little to block them out.