Agnes

His name was Moses Edem.

The cook.

Hired three days before the wedding by an event staffing agency in Yaba. No prior record. No digital footprint. One of hundreds of casual hires shuffled through the Lagos elite's endless stream of functions.

Until the morning after the wedding, when he vanished.

No resignation. No call. No word. Just a locked phone and a cleaned-out locker at the staffing office.

Musa stared at his personnel file—scanned copy of a temporary ID, a Lagos address that led to a church shelter, and an emergency contact that turned out to be disconnected.

“How does someone go from cooking a billionaire’s last meal to disappearing like smoke?” he muttered.

His phone buzzed. A message from the lab.

Latent fingerprint match confirmed. Champagne glass. Belongs to Moses Edem.

Meanwhile, Amaka sat across from her family’s long-time private banker in a discreet Victoria Island office.

“The accounts in Malta and Seychelles have been closed,” he said, sliding a file across the desk. “Funds consolidated under the Emecheta Foundation. As per your instructions.”

“Any flags?”

“A few. But we handled them quietly.”

She nodded. “And the Uyo fund?”

He paused. “That one… was interesting. It was drained two days before your mother’s death.”

“By whom?”

“That's unclear. Someone used her private access codes. Could have been her. Could have been someone who knew them.”

“Could have been Ikenna.”

The banker frowned. “That name doesn’t appear anywhere on the paperwork.”

“Doesn’t need to,” Amaka said softly. “He was the ghost she created. I’m just trying to bury him.”

Uju received another message. Anonymous again.

“You’re her weakness. Stop acting like her shadow. Ask her what she promised you in 2015.”

Uju stared at the text for a long time.

The year she dropped out of law school.

The year Amaka paid her rent for six months… in exchange for something they never spoke of again.

She stood up suddenly, heart racing, and grabbed her car keys.

This time, she wasn’t waiting for Amaka to come to her.

At the CID, Musa finally got a lead.

An elderly janitor at the catering compound remembered Moses.

“Quiet boy,” he said. “Didn’t talk much. But he was scared. Sweated a lot. Said he’d messed up.”

“Messed up how?” Musa asked.

“Didn’t say. Just kept saying, ‘I gave it to the wrong person. I gave it to the wrong person.’ Over and over.”

“When was this?”

“The night after the wedding. Before he disappeared.”

Uju arrived at the estate uninvited, again. This time, she didn’t care.

Amaka met her in the front foyer.

“You look flushed,” Amaka said. “Bad traffic?”

“You lied to me.”

“That could refer to many things.”

“In 2015, you promised you’d never become her.”

“I tried.”

“You’re worse.”

Amaka folded her arms. “Is this about the wedding? Or the poison? Or are you just angry I’ve changed without asking your permission?”

“You paid me to disappear.”

“No,” Amaka said. “I paid you to survive.”

Uju’s voice trembled. “What did you give him?”

Amaka paused.

“Who?”

“The cook. Moses. What did you hand him that morning? Before the toast.”

Amaka tilted her head.

“You’re fishing.”

“I’m remembering,” Uju snapped. “You sent me to get your shoes. When I came back, he was standing in the hallway, staring at your hands. You flinched when I asked who he was.”

Amaka took a step closer.

“You’re scared,” she said quietly.

“You should be.”

“No. I’m scared for you. Because you’re getting too close to something that doesn’t need your truth.”

Uju turned to leave. “You’re not untouchable, Amaka. No matter how many tears you fake.”

Amaka watched her go.

Then whispered to herself, “They were never fake. Just misplaced.”

Musa drove to Yaba that evening, visiting the shelter Moses had listed as his temporary residence. Most of the staff were volunteers who rotated weekly.

One woman remembered him.

“He didn’t talk much,” she said. “But he left behind a small bag when he ran. Said he’d come back. Never did.”

She handed it over—old, worn leather. Inside: two shirts, a toothbrush, and a small black notebook.

Musa opened it.

Most pages were blank. But toward the end, a scrawl of hurried notes:

“She said it’s just something to help her mum sleep better.” “Glass must go only to her table. Only hers.” “Don’t ask questions. Just deliver.” “Her eyes didn’t match her words.”

Musa closed the notebook slowly.

This wasn’t a professional hit.

This was persuasion.

Control.

Performance.

And the conductor was someone who knew exactly when to cry and when to command.

Back at the estate, Amaka stood alone in her mother’s room.

It had been cleaned. The scent of oud still clung to the drapes, but everything else had been stripped away—clothes donated, cosmetics cleared, secrets buried.

She opened the bottom drawer of the vanity and pulled out a faded photograph.

Her, at ten. Agnes behind her. Arms on her shoulders like a queen posing with her protégé.

But Agnes’s fingers in the photo were clenched.

Even then, she’d held Amaka like something to be claimed—not loved.

She tore the photo in half.

That night, Musa laid out all the pieces on his board.

Moses: manipulated, maybe accidentally involved. Still missing.

Gabriel: compromised, guilty, but not the killer.

Ikenna: angry, abandoned, not clean, but not clever enough.

Uju: emotionally unstable, but powerless.

Bamidele: motive, means, no opportunity.

Amaka…

She had everything.

Motive. Opportunity. Silence.

But no proof.

And worse: she made him believe her.

He stared at her photo—taken at the funeral, in red.

Then reached for a red marker.

And drew a slow, careful circle around her face.