Chapter VII

-Another Fork in the Road-

Ⓒ 2023

It didn’t take long for Muizz Street to become a hotspot for camera crews and news stations. Even at this time of night, there were sirens passing by and calls by police through speakers to clear areas. Soon, they would come and interview Sharifa. 

We both sat on opposite ends of a small breakfast table with mugs of coffee in our hands. The aroma was strong in comparison to the heavy stench of tea blends from earlier. 

Sharifa stared blankly into her cup of coffee. If she would have died, I would have died next, if her prophecy were correct. But what changed the killer’s mind? 

I also stared down into my own cup of coffee, taking a sip of it and savouring the strong taste. The blend was different from what I always drank back in Leavenworth, but refreshing from the screaming silence. 

“I haven’t had coffee in a while,” Sharifa began speaking, breaking the silence. 

I looked up at her. She was somehow smiling given the situation, but I could tell she was nervous. 

It was quiet again for a while as we both took quiet sips of our coffee. I stayed since I couldn’t bare the idea of walking back at night alone, especially after someone was killed nearby. 

“I need to ask you a question,” I began speaking, glancing up at her. 

Sharifa nodded and murmured, “Go ahead.”

With everything that happened so far, I was more or less convinced that all of those times of deja vu, weird dreams, and news reports of murders turned out to be real and connected. “For the past month or so, I’ve been having a weird reoccurrence of deja vu when I see the news of a murder. Not only that but, recently, I’ve been having weird dreams too. I’m wondering if it all relates to you too and if what I’m experiencing will end up getting worse.” 

She swirled her cup of coffee and sighed, “Sounds about right. I’ve been having dreams too; they feel real and like he’ll be at the foot of my bed when I wake up. Tell me more about what you’ve been experiencing.” 

It finally felt as if someone were willing to listen to me, but I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign. For all I knew, we both could be mental. “When I was back in Washington, about three weeks ago, I watched the news of different murders and felt…like whatever happened to them was happening to me. I don’t really know how to explain it without sounding crazy, but then I started to get dreams of meeting you and the killer-both of which I did eventually end up doing.” 

She stood up to head behind me where the kitchen stretched from the dining room, “Do you remember the names of the two that died?” She refilled her cup before sitting back down again. 

The fact she knew there were two different murders made me more convinced I should trust her. “Charlotte Moon and Aemilio Fontes, a celebrity and a forest watcher.”

Sharifa nodded and took a long sip of her coffee. The dark circles under her eyes seemed darker under the sharp yellow light of the ceiling fan. “Do you still remember what you felt when Moon died?” 

“Of course I do. She was the first to die. I was watching the news one day and something about her felt familiar. Apparently, she died of a heart attack, but I know for certain that wasn’t the case,” I explained. 

“Then what about Fontes?” Her eyes seemed to hold a secret she was waiting to spill depending on my answer. 

“He died near Iguazu Falls in Brazil while on patrol. I first saw the news while I was at work; that time I felt like I was getting knocked over the head and passed out on the clock. When I looked into it, he was knocked out by a bat and given something to induce a heart attack,” talking about it all again made me feel certain of what I felt to be true. I’d never been spiritual or anything, but I truly believed now that I had a link to those people. 

Sharifa was quiet as she looked away and drank her coffee. She looked back at me and set down her cup, “And what about before you met me?” 

“I had a dream of meeting you first when I was on the plane flying over to Cairo. Then, I must’ve had at least two or three during the past few nights. I haven’t been able to sleep well because of them.” 

She began to fiddle with the gold ring around her thumb, “If you still don’t believe me, I can tell you what happened in the first dream. After all, I was the one that made sure you had it.” Her eyes were dark but smiling. 

“There’s no harm in asking you to, so go ahead,” I figured there was more to her than being a simple shaman or such. We must have a connection too. 

Sharifa smiled with a peculiar glint in her eyes. “We were in the scorching desert. I was tending to some flowers in my small flower shop, maybe a few square feet large-the best I could do. I wore a long white dress, and if I’m not mistaken, you were calling me without knowing my name.”

“Then in the second dream we met, you came to my flower shop, but not as yourself,” she slipped off her gold ring and placed it in front of us, sliding it over to me. 

I picked it up and felt the smooth engravings within the interior. Whatever it said, it felt so familiar.

She stood and took her empty cup to the sink to wash, continuing from there, “The red flowers I had at the front have all wilted now.” She pointed to a large pot nearby where once bright flowers bloomed. Now they were dark and withering. “It’s bad luck to keep dead flowers.” 

The bell at the front of the shop chimed and a few voices called in Arabic. 

Sharifa sighed, but her voice was shaky when she spoke, “Looks like they’re here to ask some questions now.” 

-⏳-

By the time the police were done asking us questions, including me(in poor English), the news had begun to cover the murder. With a single warm lamp lighting up the room from one corner of the room, Sharifa and I watched the small TV screen as we waited for the story to cover. 

Even though the broadcaster spoke in Arabic, there were English subtitles and a tone in his voice to suggest something gruesome had occurred this night. I was quite blatantly scared to see how she had died, and if I would experience something as I did back in Leavenworth again when seeing Amelio’s death.  

But when an image of the woman Amunet Samir showed on the screen, I felt nothing. I looked at Sharifa with confusion, but she only gave a foreboding smile. 

“She wasn’t meant to die so soon,” she explained and motioned towards the flowers. “Just like how clipped flowers die sooner than when they are left alone.” 

We returned our attention to the TV screen where Amunet’s death was explained. Different from Moon who had died a ‘peaceful death’, Amunet suffered a grim death similar to Fontes. 

The subtitles read: Amunet Samir, a thirty-two-year-old mid-wife, was found dead in an alleyway between Muizz Street and Al Qasabi around eight last night. She was found to have escaped her murderer, yet bled out due to major wounds to her side and arm. Police believe she was ambushed by a common mugger, but there are still investigations underway. 

No on-sight images were shown of Samir, but the profile from her ID was. The woman was still young, with a bright smile and big hoop earrings. Nothing happened when I set eyes on her. I looked at Sharifa with confusion, “Why..?”

 “She isn’t connected to us like you and me. There are two others left, aside from us. Even the killer is connected to us; that’s why he knows so much,” she explained as she stood and turned off the TV. The room was quiet again. 

“Now you’re left with a decision: help me stop the killer or return home. Once the other two are dealt with though, he won’t stop there. There’s a high chance he’ll come after you and me again,” her voice was still shaking, but the look in her eyes was determined. “Whatever you choose, I’d much rather die trying than doing nothing at all.” Compared to before, she wasn’t going to let death claim her so easily. 

I didn’t want to get any more involved, but there didn’t seem to be an option. A smile formed on my face, but out of fear. “Let me make a few phone calls first.”