1 Prologue

The beastly presence entered, casting a hush of trepidation over everyone, a mere whisper escaping our lips to avoid incurring reprimand or rebuke.

This was the sentiment that washed over the Abdul-Jabbar household as my father made his Thanksgiving day entrance. Our relatives had gathered from Canton to partake in the sacred holiday with us. My dad, an unwavering workaholic, even on holidays, and the thought of celebrating Thanksgiving without him was a welcome reprieve.

I believed that the Thanksgiving spirit had granted me an unexpected gift. Scanning the expansive dining table, I witnessed my cousins sharing smiles and animated conversations with extended family and close friends. Laughter filled the room as stories flowed, and my Aunt Matilda's entertaining anecdotes added a touch of joviality to the evening.

The usual tension stemming from my father's strict demeanor seemed to have dissipated, allowing authentic connections to flourish. My mother, a culinary enthusiast, had conjured a mouthwatering turkey, saturating the room with a delectable aroma. My elder brother, Zach, adeptly carved the turkey, displaying culinary skills inherited from our father, who exuded an air of high-mindedness.

The dishes adorning the table, from homemade stuffing to creamy mashed potatoes, symbolized a fusion of ancestral recipes passed down through generations. The absence of my father's stringent presence created an opportunity for us all to share our hopes and dreams.

Despite the absence of the patriarch, the evening brimmed with love, support, and gratitude, fostering an environment where cherished bonds could thrive. However, this serenity was fleeting.

Dr. Rohit Abdul-Jabar walked in, and a collective hush fell over the room as if we had encountered the Grim Reaper. My father had not always been this way. Back in our days in London before we relocated to Michigan, we had a picture-perfect life. Everything changed when he was offered a well-paid job in Grand Rapids as a dermatologist.

Every evening, he returned from work, his face etched with weariness, and he no longer engaged with his children, especially me. His resentment began when I expressed my desire to become an actor when I grew up, while my intelligent brother, Zach, aspired to be a neurosurgeon—impressive indeed.

The favoritism began then, and I missed my father's warmth, which had vanished long before I revealed my Hollywood aspirations.

"Assalamualaikum!" my father called from the entrance.

"Wa'alaikum salaam," we all responded, even my non-Muslim relatives. My mother, who had not been Muslim before marrying my father, converted after their wedding, and my grandmother ensured we retained our Christian names. My father always emphasized that a name did not dictate one's faith.

Taking a seat, he scowled at the roasted chicken on the dining table. He never appreciated Thanksgiving, just as he disliked Christmas. "Who slaughtered this turkey? Where did you get it?" he inquired, earning confused glances from all of us.

"Zach did," my mother replied with an irritated glare.

Inhaling deeply, he sliced a substantial portion of the deep-fried turkey, meticulously savoring the seasoned meat before swallowing. "Haven't you watched the news?" Noting the ensuing silence that gripped the room, he attempted to change the subject. "Another body was discovered in the lake this morning."

"Another one?" my mother asked, her anxiety palpable. It was the fifth such discovery in a week, each victim bearing a large gash around their neck.

"I don't think this is the right time to discuss such matters; we have children present," Aunt Matilda advised.

My father scoffed, abandoning the grim topic and focusing on me. "Rayhan, have you received your chemistry test results?"

"Yes, Dad," I grumbled.

He sipped his freshly poured pineapple juice. "And how did you do?"

"I got a D, Dad."

"A D? Your brother excels in his tests. Why can't you be more like him?" My father's voice escalated, and I wished he would return to his previous, dreadful topic.

That was the breaking point for me. I slammed my fist on the table, causing the cutlery to clatter. "Your best friend is a great father. Why can't you be like him?" I shot back, storming angrily to my room.

As I ascended the stairs, I could hear him calling my name frantically. I had reached my limit with his attitude.

I hoped the menace plaguing innocent lives would catch up to him swiftly!