Agnes

Three months had passed.

The buzz had faded. The gala speeches forgotten. The fire ruled as an accident. Musa transferred to a new department—financial crimes. Clean cases. Predictable suspects.

But the Emecheta file never left his drawer.

He thought about burning it.

Often.

Until the footage arrived.

It came in a slim brown envelope.

No return address.

No fingerprints.

No message.

Just a flash drive.

Musa sat alone in his living room. Curtains drawn. Laptop open.

The footage was dated the morning of the wedding.

7:49 a.m.

A hallway camera. Not one tied to the estate's main network—likely a personal camera set up by private security. Off-grid.

It showed the staff wing. Quiet. Empty.

Then—movement.

A young girl. 13, maybe 14.

She moved quietly, carrying a tray.

She wore a veil over her face, light lace gloves, and flat shoes. Not a waitress. Not a guest.

She entered the bridal suite.

Five minutes later, she exited empty-handed.

Musa paused the footage.

Zoomed in.

The lace gloves.

The gloves Amaka had claimed were a bridal fashion accessory—"to honor tradition."

But in this video, she wasn't wearing them.

Someone else was.

He replayed the moment again and again.

Then checked the timestamp.

7:49 a.m.

Agnes died after 2 p.m.

This wasn’t the poisoning.

This was the preparation.

The next morning, Musa returned to the estate grounds.

The house had been locked up. Cleaned. Unused.

But the gardener still came once a week.

Musa walked the back path, down to the detached servant quarters.

Knocked.

Mama Tutu opened the door.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know,” Musa said. “But I need to ask you one last question.”

She looked tired. Older. As if five years had passed in three months.

“I’m retired,” she said.

“But you remember everything.”

She stared at him.

Then stepped aside.

Inside, he placed a photo on the table.

A still frame from the video.

The girl’s eyes were visible now. Big. Unfamiliar. But undeniably watching.

“Who is this?” he asked.

Mama Tutu looked down.

For a long time.

Then quietly: “Her name was Adaeze.”

“Who was she?”

“She was… part of the house. Quiet girl. Came in through one of Madam’s staffers. Stayed out of sight. Did small errands.”

“Whose errands?”

Mama Tutu didn’t answer.

“You knew,” Musa said.

“She said the girl was being trained. Taught to be useful. Like Amaka was.”

“Trained by who?”

Mama Tutu looked up.

And said it without fear:

“Amaka.”

Musa drove straight to the internal surveillance archive, his clearance long since expired, but his presence still respected.

He requested backup footage from the bridal suite hallway, dated a week before the wedding.

After hours of fast-forwarding, he found her again.

Adaeze.

Always in the periphery.

Running messages. Picking up packages. Carrying sealed bags.

Never speaking.

Always watching.

He checked her entry in the estate’s staff records.

There wasn’t one.

No surname. No ID. No tax file.

Nothing.

Just a name Amaka had written in a side note six months ago: “A. – silent runner.”

He knew what it meant.

She never intended to leave fingerprints.

She’d left another her.

An echo.

Back in Abuja, Amaka walked the dusty path to a local market, dressed in jeans and a simple blouse. No heels. No handlers. No makeup.

She paid in cash.

She never lingered.

At home, she fed the stray cat that waited outside her door each morning.

She lived like a ghost.

But tonight, she waited.

Because she knew something had changed.

She felt it.

And when her private line rang—only once every few months—she answered on the second ring.

No greeting.

Just Musa’s voice.

“She was a child.”

Silence.

“You used her.”

More silence.

Then Amaka said softly, “I taught her.”

“To poison.”

“No. To protect herself.”

“You made her your shadow.”

Amaka stared out the window.

“Better a shadow than a sacrifice.”

“Where is she now?”

Amaka hung up.

In a church-run orphanage outside Port Harcourt, a girl with sharp eyes swept the hallway in silence.

She wore lace gloves.

And when asked her name, she simply said:

“A.”