“Get ready to leave,” she told him.
“Did he tell you the name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You don’t care who killed my father?”
“Knowing won’t bring him back.”
“Al-Bayat was in Telskuf.”
Her stomach clenched with unease. Abdul Al-Bayat was Rahim’s top executioner. They called him The Butcher. Layah’s sources hadn’t revealed any specific information about Hudson’s captors. She only knew that Hudson been left in the care of local guards who were waiting for the kill orders.
“Who told you that?”
“Ibrahim.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “Hudson didn’t say the men who killed Hasan were in Telskuf. He said he thought they were.”
“Was Al-Bayat in Hasakah when my father was murdered?”
“I have no idea,” she lied. “Why fixate on this when we are so close to freedom? We need to look forward, not back.”
Ashur stretched out on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She hoped he would let it go. Al-Bayat was a likely suspect for Hasan’s murder, but they couldn’t retaliate. The Da’esh were in power. Challenging them would bring more death and pain.
Hudson emerged from the bathroom fully dressed and clean-shaven. He had the keffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head. There were light-haired Arabs and Kurds in this region, so his coloring alone wouldn’t cause a stir. The problem was his face. Shaving had refined his rugged appearance more than she’d anticipated. With his strong jaw and chiseled features, he took her breath away. A man this tall and attractive wouldn’t go unnoticed.
“Well?” he prompted.
She blinked a few times. “Well?”
“How do I look?”
“You look like an actor from a Turkish soap opera.”
Ashur smirked at the comparison.
“What does that mean?”
“You are too handsome. We want to look ordinary.”
“Ordinary? You couldn’t look ordinary to save your life. Especially in that outfit.”
She glanced down at her tunic and long, flowing skirt. She tugged on the fabric. “What is wrong with this?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying that you’ll attract attention at the border. It doesn’t matter what you wear. Men look at beautiful women, without fail. If they notice me, it will be because I’m standing next to you.”
She grabbed her hijab and covered her hair, irritated. She already felt guilty about bringing him to Iran. Now he was trying to pre-blame her for turning heads at the border. Her skirt wasn’t colorful or clingy. Maybe the garment caught his eye because she’d let him hike it up to her waist the other night. She flushed at the memory.
They left the hotel room and joined the others in the parking lot. Miri smiled at Hudson’s attempt to assimilate. She introduced her husband, Olan, who would drive them to Nordooz. Then she said goodbye, and they piled into the stake bed of the pickup. Olan had stacked two large bundles of old hotel towels in the back. He would sell the towels in Tabriz. He covered everything with a tarp, tied down at the edges.
The passengers were well hidden, but uncomfortable. It was dark and cramped in the bed of the truck. Although Layah was exhausted from the long journey and happy to be off her feet, she didn’t enjoy the ride.
Hudson settled near a tear in the tarp, which offered a small amount of light and air. Aram and Yusef took the opportunity to cuddle with their wives. Ashur slumped against the towels and slept.
Layah tried to give Hudson space. She felt alone, even though she was sandwiched next to him. She hadn’t expected him to express his tender feelings toward her or beg for her hand in marriage, but she wanted a different end to their story. A hint of passion and emotion, instead of his cold dismissal.
After a few hours on the road, everyone was asleep except her and Hudson. His body was taut as a bowstring beside hers. This experience must have been agonizing for him. She imagined that it reminded him of his time in captivity, and she understood why he’d do anything to avoid recapture.
He took off his keffiyeh. Beneath the scarf, his hair was soaked in sweat. Although the air was warm in the confined space, it wasn’t sweltering. She felt a stirring of sympathy, despite the tension between them. The least she could do was offer him comfort.
“Lean back against me,” she murmured, massaging his shoulders.
After a pause, he reclined against her lap. She stroked his damp hair to soothe him. She remembered the day she’d discovered that he had a sensitive scalp. He’d strained toward her touch as if she had magic hands. He did the same thing now. He didn’t relax enough to sleep, like the others, but some of the tightness in his muscles eased. Perhaps his anger toward her faded, as well.
He was a resilient man. She was a reasonable woman. Although they couldn’t repair their relationship or make any future plans, they could part ways in peace.
“Why did you tell your aunt I was Khalil?” he asked quietly.
Her hands went still in his hair. “Aram thought she would turn us away if we had an American among us.”
“Is that what you argued about?”
“Yes, but there was no need to lie. Miri knew you were not Khalil. She’d seen him in a wedding photo.”
“She didn’t come to your wedding?”
She started stroking again. “No. Most of my family did not attend.”
“Because of the war?”
“Because of the war, and because it is forbidden for Assyrians to marry outsiders. My parents refused to give their blessing. They never met Khalil.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes. Ouch.”
“Do they know he’s dead?”
She flinched at the blunt words. “They do not.”
“Have you spoken to them at all since you married?”
“I notified them of Hasan’s death. I could not bear to mention Khalil at the same time. I thought they would be relieved, instead of saddened.”
“That’s harsh.”
She cleared her throat. “It is part of our culture.”
“Harshness?”
“Ferocity, perhaps. We are the descendants of ancient warriors. My people ruled this land for thousands of years. Now our numbers have been greatly reduced by genocide. The only way to protect our bloodlines and keep our culture alive is to
