- AHMED -

I'd never been so angry in my life. Who does she think she is? I raged inside my mind.

I retrieved a key from my pocket, ready to unlock my bicycle from the rusted rack where I'd left it, when I heard a familiar voice calling my name:

"Ahmed? Is that you?"

I turned. "Irina? What're you doing here?"

She paused. "I—I was just...out for a walk." Her eyes darted away. "Trying to clear my head after...what happened last night."

"Oh," I whispered, shivering with the blitz of the icy air. 

"...What about you?" she asked hesitantly. "Kinda far from Gilded Pearl, isn't it?"

I lowered my head.

Irina reached out and placed a single hand on my shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Madame Caroline." I sighed, eyes still glued to the pavement. "I had my interview with her today, if you can even call it that."

"Oh, no," Irina sighed. "Ahmed, what did she say?"

"What didn't she say? She basically called my parents liars and said my adoption was just some stupid political stunt."

"Wow." Irina shook her head. "That's rough."

"Yeah, I know." My fists balled by my side. "It's just...what if she writes something terrible about James and Katherine? What am I gonna do?" I lifted my head to face Irina again, feeling once more that all too familiar welling of fresh tears at the bases of my eyes.

"Hey, listen to me," Irina tried. "Relax, okay? Madame Caroline's a gossip. She always has been. Half the people in this town don't even take her seriously..."

"And what about the other half!?" I wailed. "This is so—"

"The other half," Irina cut in, "are just as deranged as she is. You can't let their opinions scare you."

Silence was my only response, Irina glancing away for a moment before turning back to me.

"This is going to sound weird," she began. "But...have you ever tried parmesan chicken pot pie?"

Both my eyebrows furrowed, narrowing my eyes. "What? No, why?"

"Is this your bike?" She motioned to the bicycle next to us, chain lock still strapping it to the loops of a metal rack.

"Yes, but I don't get why—"

"Follow me home."

"...What?"

"Follow me home. You rode here yourself, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Perfect! Then that means you can visit my house and try my world-famous recipe!"

I paused, immediately unsure.

"Oh, come on, Ahmed. You've had a crappy day; and in all seventeen years I've been on this planet, I've never come across even one problem that can't be solved with food."

I chuckled. "You seriously want me to come over?"

"Um, duh! That's why I invited you." She smacked me playfully on the arm, then sauntered over to her own car to get inside and drive away.

I followed behind her vehicle closely, the two of us navigating the winding asphalt road through school zones and traffic lights to arrive at the Gravestepper household. As I rode into Irina's driveway, I braked my bike, taking in the sweet harmony sung by bright blue songbirds perching in the nearby trees. Irina stepped out of her car seconds later, and I walked up behind her.

We headed up the sidewalk side-by-side, stopping for a moment at the door as she fished out her keys.

"Okay," she teased, "get ready for the best meal of your life!" She swung the door wide open, the scent of fried chicken rolled in melted cheese simmering through the warm air.

"Whoa," I breathed. "That smells awesome."

Irina turned to me and smiled. "Let me get you a plate." She looped her arm through mine and yanked me toward the kitchen, then flung open the cupboards and pulled two blue-streaked chinaware dishes from the middle shelf, topping each with a slice of pot pie. Pulling out a drawer beneath the sink, she grabbed two forks, sticking one in my pie slice and one in her own before carrying both to the dining-room table.

I was the first to eat, far too tempted by the smell to wait for my host to take the first bite. "Irina, this is seriously amazing," I marveled. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"It's an old recipe," she smiled. "My grandma used to make it whenever she came over."

I nodded, returning to my pot pie.

Irina giggled, smiling warmly as I demolished the remainder in under thirty seconds.

"More?" she asked sweetly, then paused. "Oh, who am I kidding? Give me that plate." She grabbed my platter and headed back to the stove to fetch more pie.

But as she was walking, the doorbell sounded, stopping Irina in her tracks. "Huh?" she puzzled. "I wonder who that is." She left the plate by the stove, then paced to the front of the house.

I held my place at the table while Irina hurried to answer the door. "Mom?" she asked as she opened it wide.

"My apologies, Irina. I forgot my house key again," she announced as she came inside, passing directly to the dining room with Irina at her heels.

"Oh," she perked up the moment she saw me. "Irina, who's your friend?"

Irina smiled. "Mom, this is Ahmed Heavenstate. He's James and Katherine's new son."

She extended her hand to me. "How very nice," she beamed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ahmed. I'm Myra, a longtime friend of your parents."

"The pleasure's all mine," I returned.

She stopped and twisted on her heels, sniffing the air. "Ooh, Irina, is that parmesan chicken pot pie?"

"Why, yes it is!" Irina folded her hands and rocked back and forth giddily on her tip-toes.

"Well, it smells delightful. I hope you two don't mind if I join you for a little mid-afternoon snack."

"Help yourself," Irina giggled. "What's mine is yours—"

DING! Another ring of the doorbell.

Irina and her mother whirled around simultaneously.

"Who is that?" Mrs. Gravestepper looked genuinely confused, turning to get a view through the front door window as best she could. "It looks like a...a policeman..."

Irina walked over to answer, opening the door to face the man who wore a shiny badge and a thin scowl. "Evening, Officer," she began. "Is there something we can help you with?"

"Evening, Miss Gravestepper," he responded, his voice low yet commanding.

Searching instinctively for some identification, my eyes darted immediately to his nametag—STAPLEMAN.

"As I'm sure you're all aware, there was a murder at EdgeWay last night. My men and I searched the premises this morning, and we found something a bit...peculiar." He fished a crinkled photograph out of his pocket. "I was hoping one of you might be able to identify the young ladies in this picture."

In the photo, a tall brunette had her arms wrapped around the shoulder of a much younger girl, hugging her closely. The girl wore a ponytail pinned up with a sparkling pink ribbon; a wide, open-mouthed grin was plastered on her face, and her eyes were sealed shut in blissful glee.

The moment she saw the photo, Irina froze. "Th—that's me," she whispered. "I'd recognize that pink ribbon anywhere." She hesitated. "But I have no idea how that picture made it to the crime scene. I don't even remember what that's from, and I haven't worn that ribbon since I was in like preschool."

"What about the other girl?" the officer asked. "Recognize her?"

Irina stared intently at the image for a few more moments. "No, I...I can't say that I do."

The officer turned to Mrs. Gravestepper. "And what about you?"

She crossed her arms. "Me?"

"Do you remember maybe...taking this picture?"

"N—no," she shook her head without a moment's pause. "This must have been done at the kindergarten during the day. I work from eight until five..."

"And you don't ever recall seeing an older girl with your daughter?"

"I suppose it's possible, but...no one really comes to mind." 

The officer tipped his hat. "Right, then. Thank you, Miss. If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to give me a call." He handed her a miniature card with what I assumed was his phone number, then he turned and began making his way back to his vehicle.

Mrs. Gravestepper watched him carefully as he walked away, shutting the door to the house the moment he got inside the squad car. She moved quickly to draw the curtains over the adjacent windows in the room, ensuring the officer wouldn't be able to see inside as he sped off under the glitter of evening lights illuminating the neighborhood street.

"Mom?" Irina asked. "Is something wrong?"

"What? No, of course not, dear." She smiled as she drew the last curtain. "I'd just like for us to have a little privacy is all. Not many people seem to understand that these days."

"Oh...okay." Irina nodded.

"So," her mother continued as she rejoined us at the front door, "how about we finish that pot pie?" She placed one arm on my shoulder and one on Irina's, ushering us back toward the kitchen. "After all, good food is a terrible thing to waste."