Arriving Late 2025
When justice fails, only revenge remains. But what happens when you become the very thing you hate?
At 26, Samantha thought she knew the truth about her father’s death. A gifted teacher with a quiet life in Manhattan, she was raised on stories of dignity, loyalty, and trust. But when she discovers that her mysterious Iranian American godfather Bahman—a family friend and charismatic entrepreneur—secretly orchestrated her father’s collapse and exile, the foundations of her world crack.
Determined to expose him, Samantha trades her idealism for cunning, enlisting a reclusive father and son whose mastery of digital subterfuge opens doors to secrets long buried. But revenge is never clean. As Samantha steps deeper into the shadows Bahman once used to destroy her father, she must confront how far she’s willing to go—and who she’s willing to become.
Taut, morally complex, and elegantly written, The Double Edge, is a literary psychological thriller that cuts deep into the ethics of justice, the scars of betrayal, and the legacy of power. For readers who love Gone Girl, The Secret History, and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.
Chapter 10
Falling
I couldn’t sleep that night. Michael had been understandably upset about the loss of his job, but what especially angered him was how it had been orchestrated. His integrity was important to him, and he had worked hard to maintain it in a profession known for double-dealing, dishonesty, and fakery. He had run into one of his colleagues whom he thought was a friend and on whom he had a crush at a gallery opening. Brian had pretended he didn’t see him and deliberately avoided a confrontation by leaving early.
After the movie over beers, we had discussed the likelihood that Bahman was behind the planting of the object. Michael felt certain and expressed concern for me. He was thinking of applying for a role as a junior curator at the museum where the head had served as his thesis advisor and where he felt well-appreciated.
We had talked for hours about what to do, and Michael finally admitted that he would help me in whatever I decided. We had agreed to meet the following weekend to map out a plan. There was little doubt in our minds now that Bahman had deliberately caused our father’s death and that he meant to hurt us as well. I still had not figured out why.
I didn’t know if I was at risk professionally, but it struck me that getting at me through my school would not be that hard. He could make up a story about child abuse in my past and it would be hard to fight. There are certain issues on which no institution wants to try to defend the accused because the possibility of any guilt is so high-impact that the low percentage probability doesn’t matter. I had never understood why rape crimes didn’t fall into the same category as child abuse. Rapists typically have high recidivism rates as well. Maybe it was because children are more valuable to society than women who are statistically the usual victims of rape.
I tossed and turned, unable to find sleep, and dreading being a zombie in the classroom the following day. I got up and had a glass of wine. I put some scented oil on my face. I read some Carver short stories. One o’clock. Three o’clock. Four. I finally drifted off.
But it was a light troubled sleep.
…Michael and I are in a department store. Not an upscale one. It could have been a Sam’s Club or a Costco or a Target. It smelled stale like dusty boxes. The industrial carpet is worn and stained with the occasional wad of gum stuck to it. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz and one or two blink as they fade.
We were kids. Our parents were nowhere around. And someone is trying to get him. I didn’t know why. It is a man and I knew he is evil. He wants to kidnap Michael and hurt him. He is stalking us, aisle by aisle, and then into various departments, pretending to be shopping. We keep moving ahead trying to evade him without actually running. In the dream, there are no adults around other than the stalker. No shoppers, no salespeople, no floorwalkers. Only Michael and I and the man hunting him.
He seems to also realize that there are no other adults around. No one to stop him from taking Michael. My heart is racing, and I am trying to figure out how we can escape.
“Michael, go bury yourself in the circular clothes rack,” I whisper. “I will do the same nearby.”
We bury ourselves in the size 22 plus dresses that had been on sale and were now picked over and akimbo on their hangers. Some are on the floor under the rack as well, almost causing me to trip.
My heart pounds, and I try not to breathe audibly. The man approaches the rack where Michael has hidden. I can see his stylish black suede loafers with gold buckles from inside the clothes, and he is pushing women’s dresses together, pretending to look at some more closely. Then he circles the rack and suddenly reaches into the center where I know he will find Michael. I try to shout “Run, Michael,” but it sticks in my throat. I struggle to get it out, and for a moment, I think I have sacrificed my little brother because of my fear.
The effort to scream and horror at not being able to warn him awakened me…
Sweating, I turned the light and the little fan next to my bed on and took stock. I had been rattled by the day’s events and thought Michael was still at risk. It wasn’t enough to plant stolen art in his apartment and report it to get him fired. My subconscious was telling me I perceived his very life to be in danger. I needed a plan to protect him and neutralize Bahman. Even though I was two years older, Michael and I had always looked after each other when our family was living in far-off corners of the world. We would travel home to the US in the summer together across oceans and continents. There, our grandparents would take turns looking after us while our parents worked in Hong Kong or Dubai and then joined us at the end of the summer.
I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. Only 4:30. I needed more sleep. It was nearing the end of term, and the school had a Christmas pageant to stage and evaluations to get in. Sighing, I switched out the light and tried again to sleep.
This time it came more easily. Soon, I fell into a deep sleep.
And then, later, another dream. In this one, I knew I had to jump off a building to my death. It was a matter of saving my family and my honor. There was no choice. I didn’t know how it had come to this, but I recognized the necessity of what I had to do and the price I had to pay. In the dream, I was alone outdoors on the top of an unidentified tall building in a major US city, standing at the edge of the rooftop. A breeze was blowing gently. It was a grey afternoon. I heard the sounds of traffic below.
I steeled myself and then stepped to the edge of the concrete lip around the building’s roof. In the dream, a gangplank, something like a diving board, had been arranged to allow me to walk out beyond the building wall and hover over the vast air below. It had ropes on either side, similar to suspended bridges I had seen in Bhutan, but this one had no riverbank on the other end.
I walked to the end, suspended in the open air, and knew looking down would unnerve me, so I looked straight ahead. Then I closed my eyes. There was no choice. I stepped off the end, hoping my end would happen so fast I wouldn’t have to think about it or feel anything.
And again, I awaken, shuddering and out of breath.
The clock said it was 6:30. I didn’t have time to consider then what the dreams could and would mean. I had to get ready to teach my sixth graders.
Max and I have been together for 12 years this month. We met when he was about 9 weeks old and arrived in a crate from Australia at Hong Kong’s Chep Lap Kok cargo terminal one morning. He was cowering in the back of the crate, which he had soiled in the 9 ½ hour […]
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