Agnes

The family lawyer, Mr. Akinwale, arrived unannounced.

Amaka was in the conservatory, pruning orchids when the butler told her.

“Did he bring files?” she asked.

“Four,” the butler replied.

She dusted her hands, wiped the clippers with a linen cloth, and said, “Send him in.”

They met in the sunroom, where Agnes used to host her reading club and disarm political enemies with lemon cake and controlled gossip.

Mr. Akinwale looked flustered, sweating beneath his tie.

“I found something,” he said without ceremony.

Amaka crossed her legs, calm. “What sort of something?”

“A second will. Hidden in the archives box from 2021. Dated eight months ago. It wasn’t filed through official channels. Handwritten. No witnesses.”

“Illegal.”

“Technically, yes. But if proven authentic, it complicates everything.”

“Who was named?”

He hesitated. “Not you.”

Amaka didn’t flinch. “Ikenna?”

“No. A trust. The ‘Oluchi Fund’—for underprivileged girls from Eastern Nigeria. Entire estate.”

She exhaled slowly. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

“It might’ve been guilt.”

“No,” Amaka said coldly. “It was strategy. She wanted leverage, even in death.”

Akinwale placed the will on the table between them. “What do you want me to do?”

“Destroy it.”

He didn’t move.

“Or,” she said gently, “I find out how many of your offshore deals she never declared on your behalf.”

He cleared his throat, stood, and tucked the envelope back into his briefcase.

“Always a pleasure, Mrs. Okonkwo.”

That evening, Musa returned to his desk to find yet another note. This time, it wasn’t typed. It was handwritten—elegant cursive.

“She knew about the second will. She buried it before she buried the truth.”

No envelope. No fingerprint.

He sighed. Someone was playing games.

He tapped the side of his mug with his pen.

Then made a call.

“Pull every legal document filed under the Emecheta Foundation in the last 12 months. And get me handwriting samples for Amaka and Agnes. I want a match.”

At the estate, Chuka confronted Amaka in the upstairs hallway.

“Did you threaten the lawyer?”

She didn’t stop walking. “Define threaten.”

“I saw his face when he left. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“He saw the consequences of disloyalty.”

Chuka stepped in front of her.

“This is getting out of hand.”

“You didn’t marry a saint, Chuka.”

“I didn’t marry a weapon either.”

She stared at him. “Then maybe you married the wrong Emecheta.”

He didn’t reply.

Just stepped aside.

And that was enough.

Uju returned to her apartment and found the envelope on her pillow.

It was sealed with wax.

Inside: a photograph.

A clear shot of Amaka and Moses Edem—outside a drugstore in Lekki, two days before the wedding. She was handing him a white paper bag.

On the back, in red ink: “Still her friend?”

Uju sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the photo.

There were only two people who could’ve taken this.

And only one who would send it.

Musa finally traced the Uyo transfer—the one that emptied the fake Foundation account.

The account it landed in was under a corporate name, but the registration address pointed to a boutique apartment in Ikoyi.

Owned, as it turned out, by a shell company under Amaka Okonkwo Enterprises.

Registered six weeks before Agnes’s death.

He stared at the address.

Then stood.

When he arrived, Amaka wasn’t surprised.

“Detective,” she said, opening the door herself. “Come to arrest me?”

“I came to talk.”

“Then talk.”

They sat opposite each other, coffee between them, windows open to let in the breeze.

Musa spoke first.

“I’ve traced the money.”

“I assumed you would.”

“I know about the cook. The will. The offshore moves. Even the footage.”

“Then you must know I didn’t kill her.”

Musa leaned forward. “No, Amaka. I think you made her kill herself.”

Silence.

He continued. “You didn’t pour the poison. But you fed her fear. You made her feel it coming. And then… you let her sip it herself.”

She smiled.

“Impressive theory.”

“But I can’t prove any of it,” Musa said. “Not without the glass. Not without the cook. Not without someone making a mistake.”

She tilted her head. “And I don’t make mistakes.”

Musa stood.

He walked to the door.

Paused.

“She trained you well.”

“She built me to survive her.”

“She didn’t expect you to win.”

“She didn’t think she’d lose.”

Musa opened the door.

One foot out, he turned.

“You’re free, Amaka. But not innocent.”

She raised her glass.

“To survival,” she said.

He left.

And behind the door, she finally exhaled.