Instead of laughing at my case of mistaken identity, he jerks his hands back from my shoulders and stutters, “Oh, h-hi, Zahir. I did not expect to find you here. I-I…”
His brother, Zahir, says nothing. He merely watches Asir stew in his own stutters. Eyes cold and assessing like a scientist studying a rat he’s decided to experiment on.
But something must be communicated between the two of them because Asir takes a big step back from me and says, “Um, know what? I think I saw your friend—the scholarship student with the Jamaican accent?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You mean, Sylvie?”
“Yes, Sylvie!” he agrees, clasping his hands tightly in front of him in thanks as if I’ve thrown him a lifeline of some sort. “I saw her go into Holt Calson’s room at the end of the hall. I think she was look
