Chapter 5: Whispers from the Dark
The forced routine of the Afridi haveli settled into a grim rhythm over the next week. Jasim was a ghost in its hallways—present, polite, and utterly detached. He spent hours in the library, reading treatises on tribal law and international business, a silent study in simmering strategy.
Bushra, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of controlled activity. By day, she ran "The Guardian," her voice firm on phone calls with lawyers and police officials, demanding updates on the manhunt for Zaron. By evening, she presided over the tense family dinners, an iron queen on a thorny throne.
The fragile détente Jasim had brokered with Miana held. He continued to share small, fond memories of Imran—the Imran who loved Rumi's poetry, who was a terrible cricketer but a brilliant debater. With each story, Miana's wary sadness toward him softened a fraction, and Bushra's silent watchfulness grew more intense. He was disarming her family from the inside.
His real breakthrough, however, came from an unexpected source: Gul.
The young maid was tasked with cleaning his room. She was timid, speaking only when necessary. One afternoon, as she dusted, a small, worn notebook slipped from the pile of books on his desk.
Jasim, who was at the window, saw it fall. But before he could move, Gul picked it up. It fell open to a page. Her eyes, quick and literate, scanned a few lines. Her breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. She quickly closed it and placed it back, her hands trembling slightly.
It was not a business ledger. It was Imran's old journal, which Jasim had secretly taken from his friend's hostel room in Islamabad after the funeral. He had been reading it, searching for clues, for answers, for the boy he'd known before the tragedy.
"You can read," Jasim stated softly, not a question.
Gul froze, her back to him, then gave a tiny nod.
"That page you saw," he continued, his voice deliberately neutral. "It was about Emaan. He wrote about wanting to bridge the feud. To end it with their marriage."
Gul turned slowly, her face pale. She said nothing, but her eyes held a world of conflict. She was loyal to Bushra, who had given her and her family dignity. But she had also been fond of Imran, the gentle-souled younger master.
"I am not my brother, Gul," Jasim said, his tone weary, genuine. "I did not pull the trigger. But I am paying for it. I just want to understand what happened. Why did he take such a risk?"
There was a long silence. Gul's loyalty warred with her humanity. Finally, she spoke, her voice a bare whisper. "He was not the only one taking risks."
Jasim's pulse quickened, but he kept his expression calm. "What do you mean?"
She glanced at the door, terrified. "The night… the night before he was killed. He was not just meeting Emaan Begum. He received a phone call. Late. He thought I was asleep in the servants' quarters, but I was fetching water. He was arguing. He said, 'The deal is off. I won't be your puppet.' Then he said… 'Tell *Sahib* I know everything about the Islamabad supply.' Then he hung up."
Ice water trickled down Jasim's spine. *The Islamabad supply.* In the context of their tribal region, "supply" rarely meant anything benign. It often meant drugs, arms, or smuggled goods.
"Did you tell Bushra Begum this?"
Gul shook her head vehemently. "No! She was… she is broken. I did not want to give her more pain with strange whispers. And I was afraid."
"Afraid of who?"
"The voice on the phone… Imran Sahib did not say a name. But he was angry. And scared. I have never heard him sound like that."
This changed everything. What if Imran's murder wasn't just a crime of passion by a hot-headed brother? What if it was a cover-up for something else? What if Zaron was a pawn, not just a perpetrator?
"Gul," Jasim said, his voice deadly serious. "You must tell Bushra."
Tears welled in the maid's eyes. "She will think I betrayed her by not speaking sooner!"
"She will think you are brave for speaking now," Jasim insisted. "Her brother might have been entangled in something dangerous. She deserves to know. It might be the key to finding the whole truth."
He could see the turmoil in her. He was asking her to shift her allegiance, to trust the enemy prisoner with a secret that could explode the fragile narrative of the feud.
Downstairs, a door slammed. Bushra was home from her office.
Gul jumped, her decision made by fear. "I… I cannot." She fled the room, leaving Jasim alone with the earth-shattering whisper.
He picked up Imran's journal, opening it to the last entry. The writing was rushed, agitated.
*'Met with E.S. today. The offer is lucrative but smells like poison. He says it will secure my future, make me independent of the family feud. But at what cost? This is not the way. I must tell Emaan. We leave tomorrow. Clean break.'*
E.S. Who was E.S.? A business partner? A smuggler? The "Sahib" from the phone call?
Jasim looked out the window. Bushra was crossing the courtyard, her face drawn with fatigue. She was so focused on her straightforward revenge—Karani blood for Afridi blood—that she was blind to the shadows moving behind the curtain.
A dangerous plan began to form in his mind. He couldn't tell her directly. She would never believe him; she'd think it was a manipulative ploy to distract from Zaron's guilt.
But he could investigate. He had resources, contacts from his business in Islamabad that even house arrest couldn't sever. If he could uncover what Imran was involved in, if he could prove Zaron was manipulated or that another player was responsible…
He wouldn't just be freeing himself. He would be delivering a truer, more complete justice than her blind vengeance ever could. And in doing so, he might just break her utterly—not by defying her, but by out-justiceing her.
The game was no longer just about endurance and subtle rebellions. It had just become a hunt for the truth. And Jasim realized, with a cold thrill, that for the first time since his capture, his goal and Bushra's might finally be aligned: finding out who really killed Imran Afridi.
The wolf in the harem was no longer just looking for an escape. He had caught the scent of a larger prey.