Read The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 for Free Online Page A

obviously have to be of the same wealthy standing, property owners or maybe industrialists?
    I studied her photographs for the umpteenth time. There were no telltale signs, like the time we spotted Renee’s nametag. This girl was clever. None of her pictures had anything in the background, just her and her friends. Adela was a strange looking girl. She appeared older than her seventeen years, the black headscarf emphasising her dark, sunken eyes. However she looked, she was still too good for that bastard Hamid. I moved from one photograph to another. Saving them, enlarging them, 41, 42, 43. Nothing. When I closed my eyes for a moment all I could see was her face. Those eyes. Those sad eyes. 58, 59, 60 and then there it was. The eyes had gone, the sadness hidden, behind sunglasses.
    As those glasses grew on the screen, I almost felt like I was holding them in my hands, like I could whip them off her face and see those eyes again. I felt a shiver pass through me. I could see those boys kicking the man in the head. As soon as I saw that reflection, I knew I was about to find her.
     
    *
     
    I still had the image of those sunglasses in my head, as I waited at the bus stop opposite the graveyard. It was ironic how things were reversed now, like a negative. Sun had become shade and vice versa. Where the sunglasses would have been, there was now a mere slit from which to view the world. Where my face would have been bathed in glorious sunshine on such a January day, there was only cloth. Trapping my breath inside. Fuck I hate this burka.
    Each time a bus pulled up, I stepped back. I didn’t need a bus, not yet anyway. My rectangle of vision was all that I required at present.
    There were only two men present at the burial. One of which, I assumed was Fatima’s husband. The other may have been her boss from the mosque; I didn’t know and really didn’t care. The ceremony was over in less than ten minutes. A pauper’s funeral by all accounts. Her fate was in Allah’s hands now.
    Another bus, another step back. The gravediggers were shovelling in the soil, stamping it down with a ferocity that intimated they knew what Fatima had been, what she had become. Then they were gone.
    I waited and I watched. I thought about that building, the one in the reflection. If only it hadn’t been sunny that day, if only she hadn’t been wearing those sunglasses then maybe death wouldn’t be on her doorstep now. But it had been sunny, she had been wearing those glasses and that was, without a doubt, the Eiffel Tower. She had been in Paris with Hamid and Fatima and that is why I knew she would come to pay her last respects. Here, today, witnessed through the slit of my burka, Adela Nissar would make her last mistake.
     
    Chapter 10.
     
    I took another step back. Not because of a bus, this time, but because of her. Those sunken, sad eyes passed by not two feet in front of me. She was wearing her headscarf, but no jewellery this time. I watched as she crossed the road and walked defiantly past the “No Women” sign, displayed to the left of the cemetery gates and headed straight for her friend’s final resting place. That flattened rectangle of soil; stamped down by angry feet.
    I felt like a sniper watching Adela through that slit. I knew she would be joining her friend soon, wrapped in nothing but a cotton shroud, facing Mecca together. As she stood saying her private prayers, I felt no anger towards her; the rage hadn’t surfaced. Not yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
    Since the moment we had arrived in this country, I had felt a cloud hanging over me, no, more of a thunderstorm than a cloud. Charged with electricity and bolts of lightning capable of killing a man instantly. A cloud the locals called the Death Penalty. And by God this country wasn’t afraid to use it. I knew we had to be extra careful with everything we did, especially if the authorities were aware that we might be here. I had already been in touch with