It’s the middle of the night when I’m walking home. My arm throbs as the painkillers wear off. I’m still a little shaky from what happened earlier, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be walking out of that building today, but Zach and his men are gone. I know it’s because of the information I gave them. They’re getting ready for the arms sale.

Zach doesn’t believe I’m safe. He thinks what happened today had to do with Armen. But he’s wrong. There’s no way Armen knows what I’ve been doing. I’ve been too careful. And even if he did, he wouldn’t do something like that to me.

The house is dark. I dig my key out of my purse and let myself in, hearing the echo of my footsteps. I’m alone. Armen isn’t here and he won’t be for four days. And after that, Malik will either be dead or in the custody of the Americans and Armen will be free.

I walk into the kitchen and turn on the dim light over the stove. I’m starving. After this morning, I’d been too anxious to eat. Taking leftover soup out of the fridge, I pour it into a pot to warm it up and can’t help thinking about Zach. About what happened today. When the shots rang out at the market, the first thing he did was push me behind him. He used his body to shield mine. He also told me he cared about me. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that.

When the soup boils, I sit down to eat, but I only manage a few spoonfulls before anxiety fills my belly, not leaving room for food. What if Zach’s right? What if I’m wrong about my own brother? Ever since Zach said it that first day, I’ve been thinking about it, and gathering that information over the last two months, I’ve seen things.

I open my purse and take out the envelope. From inside, I unfold the sheet of paper I’d given Zach. The one with all the names. Wanted men, I know. Dangerous men. A shudder runs through me at the few names I recognize. He told me to put it back. That if this sale didn’t go through as planned, if Armen realized what I’d done, he’d hurt me. I can’t think about that, but I do rise to my feet and make my way to Armen’s study. I open the door. It’s pitch black inside. I go in—just a few steps, my hand is still on the doorknob—and drop the sheet of paper on the floor where I’d picked it up hours earlier.

And I know in that instant that this is over. That this was the last piece of information I’d give Zach. The realization makes me shudder, the thought that I’ll never see him again.

But when I hear the lock on the front door turn, I stop dead in my tracks. My eyes lock on the door handle. I hadn’t switched on the lights when I’d come home so the room is lit only by the light from the stove in the kitchen and the full moon shining in through the windows. It’s like my feet are glued to the spot when the door opens.

I see Armen right away.

And he sees me.

Me with my hand on the doorknob of his study. Me with one foot inside and one foot outside the office he’s forbidden me to enter.

He’s casual when he enters the house, like he’s not surprised to find me here. Several men follow close behind him. Men I don’t recognize. Malik’s soldiers, whom he rarely lets into the house.

But seeing them, six of them, file into my parents’ home, some with rifles across their shoulders, some with pistols tucked into holsters, my blood chills and I feel the color drain from my face. I meet my brother’s gaze and all those men—it could have been two dozen of them—and they wouldn’t frighten me as much as the look on Armen’s face does. The one that says he’s known all along.

They flank Armen and every set of eyes is on me.

The last one closes the door and someone switches on the lights. It’s startling, the sudden brightness of the place. It exposes me. Leaves me nowhere to hide.

Armen takes a step toward me. Then another. Then he clucks his tongue and I open mine to speak, but nothing comes. Only a choking sound. I try to clear my throat, but I can’t. All I can do is watch him approach, watch the one who follows, and I can’t tell who is the meaner of the two. The one I should fear more. The one I should run from.

But I don’t run. Where would I go?

“Armen?” I manage somehow when he reaches me.

His eyes, so like my own, study my face, glide down to the bandage at my arm. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and swipes a smudge of dried blood away. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. Doesn’t ask about the bandage. The soldier moves behind me and grips my hair, tugging my head back hard.

“What have you done, little sister?” Armen asks the question as he takes a syringe out of his pocket and uncaps it.

When I open my mouth to scream, the man who’s holding me twists his fingers in my hair and renders me mute with pain.

Armen steps even closer, and I’m trying not to look at the needle in his hand, not to see him depress the plunger to push air out of it before bringing it to my exposed neck, stabbing me with it.

“What have you done?”