Chapter 10: THINGS FALL APART

Irene’s dad had been fuming as he stormed the hospital reception. Karim was tired from the events of the night, every movement heavy with defeat. His tie hung loosely around his neck, his once-crisp suit now creased and damp with the sweat of fear and failure. His shoes were dusty, his shoulders drooped, and his eyes looked as though they had aged ten years in a single evening.

When he had stumbled out with Irene in his arms, the night air had given no relief. The policemen stationed around the house were nowhere to be found—most had been neutralized, sprawled on the

grass in unnatural positions, drugged or

incapacitated. A large number of the wealthy attendees had already left in haste, fleeing from danger they had no stomach to face. Jemima, too, was gone, as though swallowed by the chaos she had walked into his life with.

The moments before the disaster replayed mercilessly in his mind. She had deciphered, with nothing more than her sharp wit and a few overheard words, that he was a detective. He had been impressed by her intuition, charmed even. And against his better judgment, he had let her occupy a corner of his mind, a corner that should have belonged entirely to his work. Now Irene lay unconscious because of his distraction.

He had carried her to his car like something precious and fragile, called Salako with trembling fingers to inform him of the night’s collapse, and driven at reckless speed to the hospital.

The doctors had attended to Irene the instant he arrived. Machines beeped, masks hissed, and hands moved swiftly. She was stabilized, but the sight of her limp body had carved a hollow in his chest.

Karim stood against the sterile white walls, shaking, until the sound of polished shoes striking the hospital tiles cut through his haze.

The worst came bursting through the door moments later.

“How could you take her to that event knowing fully well the risks?” the DSP shouted. His voice was thunder in the narrow corridor. He stormed forward and seized Karim by the collar, slamming him against the wall with surprising force for a man of his age. Spittle flew from his lips as his fury boiled over.

Karim didn’t fight it. Shame burned him raw. His eyes fell to the floor, and he let himself sag under the weight of the older man’s grip. He wondered, not for the first time, how he had let himself be so careless, how he had allowed distraction and weakness to seep into places that once had been guarded by discipline.

“Dewale, let the young man go,” came a softer voice, trembling and close to breaking. The DSP’s wife had

followed him in. Her eyes were red, her steps

unsteady. “The doctor said she will be okay.”

The DSP’s hands shook as he let go, releasing Karim’s collar with a jerk as if even touching him

was an offense. His chest heaved, and his eyes darted past Karim toward the door of the room where Irene lay.

She was his only daughter. His pride, his light, his last tether to a life he still understood. He had every right to be furious.

Karim straightened his clothes but kept his eyes down. A tide of words pressed against his lips,

excuses and apologies, but none of them made it past

his throat. Nothing could fix what he had allowed to happen.

—

When he finally returned home hours later, dawn was threatening the horizon. He closed the door behind him with a weary push, leaning against it for a long breath before stumbling toward his chair. He dropped into it, boneless, and buried his face in his hands.

His fingers brushed against something in his pocket. A small slip of paper.

He drew it out, and there it was: Jemima’s handwriting, delicate, almost playful, with her contact written neatly. A note from the woman who had smiled at him in the chaos of Musa’s mansion, the woman who had looked at him as though she had known him forever.

For a moment, he let himself feel the ghost of her perfume, the sound of her laughter, the sparkle in her eye. His heart tightened, traitorous.

Then anger rose up. At her. At himself. At the weakness that had let him be distracted while death circled closer. He slammed the note onto the table as though it had scorched him. He didn’t even throw it

into the bin—it sat there, a taunt, a reminder of his failure.

Karim pressed his palms against his temples. He

couldn’t afford this. Not now.

—

The precinct greeted him with whispers the next morning. Conversations dimmed as he passed, only to rise again in low tones behind his back. His colleagues, his juniors, even the clerks—everyone had questions in their eyes. How had the killer struck again under his nose? How had another man died, and the daughter of the DSP almost perished?

He walked through it all in silence, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge them. The case had grown teeth. The city was restless. And whether they said it aloud or not, they were all looking at him for answers.

He pushed into his office and ordered for the case files. Old, dusty folders were dragged out from cabinets rarely touched. He dove into them like a man searching for air, flipping brittle pages, scribbling notes, cross-referencing names. The files smelled of paper long forgotten, of ink that had dried into history.

And then he found it.

The original case.

It had been logged as a robbery gone wrong. A couple and their young daughter, returning home after a late evening drive around town, around four or five o’clock, had been ambushed. The parents were shot several times , executed mercilessly, while the girl was left in shock, a silent witness to it all.

The file claimed the suspects were swiftly apprehended and neutralized. No lingering questions, no loose ends. An open-and-shut case.

But as Karim read, the more bile rose in his throat. The details were too clean. The timeline too neat.

Witness statements were sparse, and those that

existed were strangely uniform, almost as if written by the same hand. Even the handwriting across different sections seemed identical.

It stank of haste. Of convenience. Of a case tied off not with justice, but with corruption.

Karim sat back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose, fury simmering in his chest.

—

He listed out the victims so far to bring clarity to the storm in his mind:

• Commissioner Kola Ademola — retired commissioner of police. Skull bludgeoned, throat slit, number 5 carved into his chest.

• Commissioner Jude Ogbonna — commissioner for agriculture, once a policeman. Hung down a bridge, number 4 carved into his chest.

• Superintendent Musa Yahya — entrepreneur, killed during his party. Number 3 carved into his left palm.

And now the file revealed the other two who had worked the case alongside them:

• Superintendent Moses Agbor — now seated comfortably in the legislature.

• Inspector Daniel Okoro — a businessman who had transformed into a mogul, his empire sprawling.

Five men. One case. Three already dead.

—

Karim’s fist slammed against the desk, rattling the

files.

What sort of men were these? Men sworn to uphold the law, who had climbed the ranks draped in honor, and yet had spent their lives bathing in the filth of corruption. He imagined them laughing in some dank

room, signing off reports they knew were lies,

patting each other on the back for their cleverness while a child sat orphaned, her life shattered.

His lips curled with disgust. Perhaps the killer wasn’t wrong to hate them. Perhaps the killer was only holding up a mirror to men who deserved to see their own blood.

But justice was not vengeance. And if he gave in to that line of thought, he was no better than the man they hunted.

Still, the ire burned in him. He hated them. He hated what they represented: the rot in the force, the arrogance of power, the way men built empires of

deceit while families paid the price.

He pushed back in his chair and pressed his palms against his eyes.

And then, another face surfaced in his mind.

Aisha.

Her trembling voice. Her tears spilling freely. The way she had sat across from him, begging him to believe her. He had let her go. He had chosen to trust her. He had allowed her to vanish into the city without protection because his heart had been moved by pity.

Now she was gone, a ghost. And he had no idea whether she was cowering in fear somewhere, silenced forever, or complicit in a game larger than himself.

He cursed under his breath. His principles had faltered, his emotions had led, and now the trail was colder by the hour.

He wondered where she was at that very moment. Was she watching the news, terrified that the killer might find her next? Was she running, her name erased from every record? Or was she sitting in some dark corner with the real killer, laughing at how easily Karim had been played?

The thought twisted his gut.

—

He leaned forward again, dragging the files closer. His hands shook, whether from exhaustion or fury he couldn’t tell. He stared down at the names, the signatures, the lies written in black ink. He had to find the truth. He had to.

But deep inside, a darker whisper grew louder: what if the killer was always a step ahead because the

killer wasn’t wrong?

Karim shut his eyes tight, fighting back the thought.

He could not afford to fall apart. And yet, as he sat there, the walls of the office seemed to close in, the whispers outside the door seemed sharper, and the faces of the dead, the living, and the missing swirled together in the darkness of his mind.

Things were indeed falling apart. And he wondered how much longer he could hold himself together. He grabbed his car keys and pushed out of the precinct and drove off. Half a hour later, he stood in front of the prison where the perpetrators of the original case were incarcerated. His gut was telling him to look into them. Inside the head wardens office, he was met with disappointment yet again. Samuel Ajayi, the main perpetrator was dead and most of the

remaining members were either dead or languishing away in the prison.