Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(17)

“Zaf,” Jamal said. “Don’t—”

“Can’t stay. Have to go and flush my niece’s phone down the toilet.”



“Did you have a good day at work, puttar?”

“No,” Zaf snapped, kicking off his shoes and striding into the living room. “Where’s Fatima?”

His mum and sister-in-law were perched on the old, squishy sofa they’d had since Zaf was a kid, Mum’s tiny, round frame swallowed up by the swathes of fabric she was working on. Her focus was split between stitching a hem by muscle memory alone and watching an episode of Come Dine with Me, so she didn’t seem to notice Zaf’s tone. “Fatima?” she murmured. “Around, I think. There are samosas in the kitchen.”

“I don’t want samosas.” Zaf frowned, then got ahold of himself. “In a second. I want samosas in a second. Thanks, Ami. But—”

Mum’s laughter interrupted him. She nodded gleefully at the TV, where a white woman with feathers in her hair stirred a pot of vomit-colored dopiaza. “Dear me, that looks awful. The other guests will cause such a fuss.”

“Is Fatima here or not?”

“All they do is fuss,” muttered Zaf’s sister-in-law, Kiran, who was frowning down at her own stitches and ignoring Zaf quite happily. Kiran was taller than Mum, paler and thinner than she used to be, her face lined before her time. But Zaf knew exactly what his brother would say if he saw his wife now.

There she is, the one who puts the moon to shame.

Was it weird to think sentimental thoughts about Zain and Kiran while plotting the murder of their only child? Maybe. Just to get everything out in the open, Zaf said, “I’m going to kill your daughter.”

Kiran barely glanced up. “Why? Has she been stealing your romance novels, too?”

“Romance novels?” Mum was finally paying attention, scowling at them both from behind her huge, cream-colored glasses. They were Gok Wan, apparently. Height of fashion, apparently. Zaf stayed out of it. “You are both a horrible influence. Romance novels, indeed.”

“It’s healthy for her, Ami,” Kiran said. “She needs to see—”

“This is not what I came to talk about,” Zaf growled. Then he raised his voice to bellow, “Fluff! Get your arse down here.”

Mum tutted disapprovingly and turned back to the TV, where a balding man with a grim expression was complaining about the dopiaza. “Absolutely awful. To be frank, I wouldn’t feed that to a dog. I’m sure she tried her hardest, but it’s a two out of ten from me.”

A few minutes later, the living-room door burst open and Fatima rushed in, a beaming smile on her face. “Chacha! Did you see it?”

Her happiness disarmed Zaf a little. Fatima was a smart kid—a really smart kid, just like her dad had been. So why didn’t she seem to realize that she had done a Very Bad Thing and was in serious trouble?

“The video? Yes, I saw it. What on earth were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” Fatima said patiently, “that views are money, and Tackle It needs money. Is this your regular grumpy face or your angry face? I can’t tell.”

“Angry face,” Kiran offered from the sofa. “When he looks extra constipated—”

“What the hell?” Zaf burst out.

“Language!” Mum snapped.

“—that means he’s angry. Zaf, sweetie, what’s crawled up your behind now?”

“I’ll tell you what. Your daughter,” Zaf said, because he officially washed his hands of Fatima as his niece, “used an embarrassing Instagram video to publicly identify me as the founder of Tackle It.”

“Good.” Kiran smiled sweetly, because she was an unnatural woman who enjoyed the suffering of others. “Now people will pay attention and you’ll finally get it off the ground. Only a child of mine could be so clever.”

Zaf’s jaw dropped. His righteous anger deflated. Why was no one furious on his behalf? What the fuck was wrong with these people? “This—she shouldn’t—you sound like Jamal!”

Was it Zaf’s imagination, or did his sister-in-law’s cheeks flush slightly pink? Before he could decide, she argued, “Fatima’s right: views are money and publicity is opportunity. You are, allegedly, a young man. You should know this.” Kiran herself was some kind of Instagram model, except she made all her own clothes. She even embroidered her own hijab. Her account brought a lot of business to the clothing store she ran with Mum, so Zaf supposed she knew what she was on about. And he’d been planning to add his name to Tackle It’s website anyway. Eventually. Once he’d turned the idea over in his mind long enough to wear away the film of anxiety.

But this video . . . “It’s too much,” he said, and his voice came out rough and croaky. “Too many people. Attention isn’t always a good thing, Kiran, you know that.” Back when Dad and Zain had died, there’d been . . . a news drought, or something. Zaf had already stood out more than he should, being one of few Muslim pros, non-practicing or otherwise. Journalists had been all over his “tragic” story like flies on shit, and his world had shattered under someone else’s microscope. So, no, attention wasn’t always a good thing. He’d learned that when the press had turned his family’s unhappy ending into a sports section headline.