A devoted wife and mother unravels her late husband’s secret life in an emotional and suspenseful novel about betrayal, lies, love, and loss.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from As Far As She Knew by Diana Awad, which releases on April 1st 2026.
For twenty-three years, Amira Abadi believed she had a strong, loving marriage. But when her husband, Ali, dies suddenly, that certainty shatters with the discovery of a house she never knew existed. As whispers of betrayal spread through their tight-knit Arab American community, Amira refuses to let others define her husband’s legacy―or her path forward.
Diving into an investigation of Ali’s final days, Amira uncovers decades-old secrets that challenge everything she thought she knew. With her children struggling to process their father’s death, Amira must balance protecting her family with pursuing the truth, even as each revelation brings her closer to danger.
As Amira peels back layers of lies, she discovers that the greatest mystery isn’t what her husband was hiding―it’s how far she’ll go to uncover the truth.
Excerpted from As Far As She Knew Copyright (c) 2026 by Diana Awad. Used with permission from the publisher, Mindy’s Studio. All rights reserved.
My husband died on a cold summer night. Later, when I discovered the truth, and the haze of shock and dis-belief melted away, I wished he were alive so I could kill him.
I found out my husband was dead via one of those middle-of-the-night phone calls that is always bad news. It came through on the land-line, a number that no one, except for telemarketers and the pharmacy, ever used. They initially tried to reach me on my mobile, but only Ali and the kids got through when I silenced my phone. I was in too much of a sleep stupor to process what was happening. The stranger’s voice vibrated into my head, somehow both intimately close and yet coming from a distance, hurtling into my ear.
“Is this Mrs. Abadi?”
“Yes?” My voice was muffled, creaky with sleep. I didn’t bother to correct the routine mispronunciation of my last name. He pronounced it “a body” rather than the correct “a baddie.”
“Do you live at 1620 Merry Pines Circle? Are you married to Mr. Ali Abadi?”
I shifted in bed, growing more alert. Why were they asking about Ali? Why did they have our address? “Who is this?” I asked sharply.
I tried to remember where my husband was. My mind went blank at first. Then it came to me. He had a business thing with the local TV station where he worked as an occasional contributor. Dinner with sponsors. It was supposed to run late.
“Ma’am,” the voice in my ear said, “I’m Officer John Wheaton with the county police department. We are outside your front door. We tried knocking and ringing the doorbell, but no one answered.”
I awkwardly pushed myself into a sitting position. “You’re where?”
“At your house. We didn’t want to alarm you by banging on the door.”
I hadn’t heard anything. The fan that I ran in my bedroom every night took care of that. Which was usually the point. I couldn’t sleep with my college kids, home for summer break, tramping up and down the stairs at all hours, closing doors, and talking too loudly. Long gone were the days when I could force them to go to sleep at a reasonable hour. I stumbled out of bed, almost tripping on the corner of the sheet that caught my foot. I threw on the first thing I saw. The baggy T-shirt and elastic-waistband shorts I’d worn the day before. My usual uninspired work-from-home uniform. A whiff of body odor hit me when I tugged the cotton top over my head. I stopped myself from turning on the upstairs hall light. I didn’t want to wake the kids.
By then, it registered that something was wrong.
I gripped the banister when I reached the stairs, and somehow managed to get to the front door without pitching, face-first, down to the landing. I fumbled around for the key and finally turned it into the lock. I was surprised by the shock of cool air that blasted over me when I managed to fling the door open. It was late July, when the days were hot and muggy in Virginia, even in the middle of the night. But it was like nature had adjusted the temperature to meet the moment. The uniformed officer stood on the doorstep, his face contorted into a mask of practiced sympathy, as if he’d done this too many times before.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but there’s been an accident.”
* * *
About seventeen years into our marriage, I had an epiphany about Ali. During a yoga class meditation, we were asked to focus on the closest person to us, our truest love. My thinking mind immediately went to the children, but when I closed my eyes, I saw Ali’s sweet face, the ever-present smile, the gentle expression, the understated laugh at one of my jokes.
Marriages, like people, are imperfect. There were times I actively disliked my husband, especially when his extreme cheapness made me feel constrained, hemmed in. We stopped seeing certain friends with expensive tastes because of it. Ali and I rarely fought about anything but money. The problem was that money touches everything in life. Where you live. Who you see. Where you go. What you do day-to-day. But, that afternoon in the yoga class, the insight about the depth of my love for Ali felt like the truest thing. And I was glad, after he died, that I’d had that realization, that I knew what I had when I had it. That I didn’t ever have to regret not loving Ali enough.
When I went home and told him, Ali said, “You only just now realized?” And we went upstairs and made love. Long and slow and sweet and tender. That afternoon stayed with me for a long time.
I couldn’t remember Ali ever saying, “I love you.” He showed it in the way he took care of me and the children. I never doubted his devotion. I assumed his reserve was a natural part of his personality. But maybe it was because he kept secrets from me.
Later, I compared the dates and realized that he’d already purchased the house on Cozy Glenn Lane by the time we made love that afternoon.
* * *
The morning after deciding to sue the LLC, I got my coffee and sat down to edit an exhibit script for a Missouri museum.
I’d developed a thriving freelance business, working with design firms hired by museums to put together new exhibits or update old ones. A lot of my work came via word of mouth. The museum world was tight knit.
But I couldn’t concentrate.
How long would it take to learn anything from the lawsuit? I was impatient to know more. My thoughts went to Ali’s phone. I’d avoided going through his electronics up until now. In part because it still felt like snooping, even though Ali was dead. But maybe I’d find some clue about the woman who lived in the Cozy Glenn house.
I checked my work calendar. I had a meeting at eleven with a new client, a museum in Indiana that was being revamped and wanted me to write a new exhibit. It was a big job. But I had a couple of hours before the call, so I went upstairs to Adam’s room, where Ali’s phone was charging. Adam hadn’t been happy when he came home to find his dad’s phone dead. As though keeping Ali’s phone charged was a way of keeping part of him alive.
I dialed in the security code—which Ali had never hidden from me. Tons of junk email had accumulated in the months since Ali died. I scrolled through, going back until the week of the accident, but found almost nothing personal. Ali had never texted much either, but there was one message that caught my attention. It was from Ian, one of Ali’s JMU friends.
No one’s heard from Lizzie in almost a year. I hope she’s OK.
Have you heard from her?
I checked the date. The text was more than a year old. Ali hadn’t responded. Why not? Maybe he’d picked up the phone and called Ian to discuss Lizzie’s mysterious absence.
Next, I went through Ali’s tablet. Again nothing. No trace of Carol Darius, and he didn’t even follow Lizzie online. I scrolled through Ali’s Facebook account. He’d rarely posted. I paused at a family photo of us at Thanksgiving from many years ago when the children were still in elementary school. I read through some of the comments. There was only one person I didn’t recognize. Someone named Samantha Price. Her comment beneath the picture said, Beautiful family. Maybe she was a work colleague or some other acquaintance he’d met along the way. I clicked on her profile, but it was blank. No picture or biographical information. Ali hadn’t responded to her or any of the other commenters.
The doorbell rang, startling me out of my ruminations. I set the tablet down, wondering who would show up unannounced on a week-day morning. It was Julia, Ali’s sister. I hugged her hello.
“It’s good to see you.” I meant it. I’d missed my friend.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Of course.” I led her into the kitchen and pulled the iced tea out of the fridge. Arabs never let guests leave without forcing food and drink on them whether they wanted it or not.
“Then why haven’t you come to see Mama?”
I’d avoided my husband’s family because I feared they’d sense my uncertainty about Ali. I wasn’t sure I could hide my growing resentment at my husband for creating this situation and leaving me to deal with it.
“Would you prefer coffee?” I asked.
“I would prefer that you stop what you’re doing and talk to me.”
I carefully set the tea pitcher on the counter. “I’ll come and see Um Ali this weekend. I promise.”
Julia crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you avoiding us?”
“To be fair, I’m avoiding almost everyone.” I searched for a plausible excuse. “People-ing is still a lot of work for me.”
“You’re obviously seeing some folks. Nasser mentioned that he saw you recently.”
“He did?”
“He was trying to reassure Mama that you’re OK. She’s worried about you. You haven’t come to see us. You haven’t even called. Nasser told Mama he’d seen you and that you’re fine.”
“He’s right. I am. I’ve just been busy.”
“Doing what?” Julia didn’t hide her agitation. “We’re not dead, Amira. My brother died, and now you’re acting like we’re dead too.”
My face crumpled. I couldn’t help it. The pressure was too much. Julia immediately came around the island to hug me tight.
“We miss him too, habibti. We don’t want to also lose you and the kids.”
“You won’t,” I said through my tears. “That will never happen.”
“What’s really going on? Are you seeing a counselor? Maybe that would help.”
I pulled away. “Did Ali ever tell you that he bought a house in the Raleigh area?”
“No.” She tilted her head. “When did you guys get a house in North Carolina? And why?”
“Not us guys.” I sighed and slipped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Just Ali.”
“Wait.” Julia plopped down opposite me. “What?”
“After Ali died, I found out he was paying the mortgage on a house in North Carolina.”
“And you knew nothing about it? That’s crazy.” She looked dazed. “When did he supposedly buy this house?”
“Eight years ago.”
Her eyes got bigger. “Is it a rental or something?”
I shook my head. “After he died, I think the house went to a woman named Carol Darius. Have you ever heard of her?”
“What?” Shock stamped her face. “I don’t know that name. Who is she?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” I knuckled my eyes. “All I know for sure is that Ali bought a house without my knowledge. And he left it to someone else.”
Julia scoffed. “Impossible.”
“I thought so too. But there’s a paper trail. Money to pay for the house came out of one of our joint accounts.”
“That’s insanity. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation.”
“We haven’t found one yet.”
“Wait.” Julia studied me. “You believe what? That Ali was having an affair with this woman?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
Her face twisted. “You’ve already given up on him?” Accusation rang in each word. “You were married to the man. You know what a decent person my brother was. I can’t believe you’re so ready to believe the worst about him.”
“How am I the bad guy?” It didn’t feel like Julia and I were on the same team anymore, but then I remembered we never were. Suddenly, I was back in my in-laws’ dining room staring at the wedding invitation with Lizzie’s name on it. Ali’s family would always close ranks around him, no matter what he did.
“I really thought you loved my brother,” she said. “That you’d defend him and protect his memory until your dying day.”
“He did invite his ex-girlfriend to our wedding without telling me,” I retorted. “Oh, but I forgot, you condoned that.”
“What?” Her face flushed. “I did not.”
“You refused to even admit that it was wrong of him to invite her.” I threw Julia’s words from all those years ago back at her.
“I’ll never speak against my brother, Amira. That’s what you said when I needed your support.”
“You’re still angry about that?” She looked flabbergasted. “After all these years?”
“What if he never gave any of his American girlfriends up?”
“That’s impossible.” Her cheeks flushed. “Are you saying he gave this Carol lady the house?”
“I don’t know. The lawyer handling the LLC that owns the place won’t tell me who got the house. He just confirmed it wasn’t me.”
“There must be a way to find out more.”
“I’m working on it.”
We both were calmer now, speaking in more measured tones, being careful with our words and each other.
“In the meantime, let’s not mention this at Baba’s birthday dinner,” she said. “My parents don’t need any more trauma around Ali’s death.”
“I won’t say anything.”
The entire family planned to gather at my in-laws’ later that month to mark my father-in-law’s seventieth birthday. I was relieved that Ayla and Adam were coming down for the gathering. It would give me the opportunity to check in on them, especially Ayla.
“Baba didn’t want to celebrate because of Ali, but he finally agreed to at least have dinner with the kids and grandkids.”
“I’m not telling anyone outside of you, Lulu, and Nasser. The last thing I want is for Ayla and Adam to find out about this.”
“You’ve told Nasser?” she asked. “Why?”
“He’s helping me. We’re threatening legal action if the LLC doesn’t tell us who got the house.”
Julia sipped her tea. “Hmm.”
“Hmm what?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you have something to say?”
She paused, considering her words. “Just be careful.”
“Could you be more cryptic?”
“I know Ali loved Nasser like a brother,” she said haltingly. “But I always got the sense that Nasser was jealous of Ali.”
“Really?” This was news to me. “In what way?”
She shrugged. “Just be careful.”
