Chapter 13: THE LIGHT

The room felt lighter than he remembered. He had been gone for a while, and yet it seemed to have transformed from his untidy bachelor’s den into

something closer to a sanctuary. The curtains, which once hung askew and dust-laden, now framed the morning light with precision. The air carried her scent — a delicate floral note, softened with powder and something richer, lingering in the fabric of his sheets, the cushions, the very walls. It was as though she had breathed life into his space simply by existing there.

Karim paused by the doorway, his bag still slung on one shoulder. His eyes roamed across the living

room and then into the bedroom, where the transformation was even more pronounced. The floor was visible again. Clothes that had been flung carelessly across chairs and bedposts were gone, folded neatly into stacks or hung in the wardrobe. A note rested on the bedside table, her cursive handwriting slanted with elegance. It smelled faintly of her cologne.

He picked it up carefully, almost reverently, and read the words: Urgent business. Call me when you’re free. The gentility of her pen strikes made him pause. He read it again, and again, until the words blurred into one another. He placed it back down as if it were fragile porcelain.

He smiled faintly, but the smile quickly slipped away, replaced by weariness. The reassignment weighed heavily on him — the guard detail for Okoro Daniel. Babysitting a man who reeked of guilt. Yet the note in his hand had softened something inside him, if only for a moment.

He considered calling her, thumb hovering over his phone. But he stopped. There was no point. He

would be stationed at Daniel Okoro’s mansion that night anyway. He would see her soon. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He sighed and began stuffing a change of clothes into his duffel bag, almost reluctant to leave the apartment. For the first time in years, it felt like home.

As he zipped the bag shut, guilt slipped uninvited into his chest. Irene. He hadn’t seen her since the hospital. She had smiled at him with such courage,

held his hand with such quiet strength. And yet here

he was, standing in a room infused with Jemima’s presence, thinking of her. He told himself he wasn’t cheating — he wasn’t in a relationship with Irene. But the reassurance was feeble. The guilt remained, coiling like smoke in his lungs.

He decided to stop by the hospital. It was the least he could do.

When he got there, his chest tightened. The room was empty. The bed was neatly made, the IV stand

gone, the machines silent. She had already been

discharged. Karim asked a nurse, who confirmed it with a shrug. “Her father picked her up earlier this morning.”

Karim muttered his thanks, but disappointment clung to him as he left. He wanted to see her, to say something — he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps to apologize. Perhaps to explain. Perhaps to sit in silence. But the chance had slipped through his fingers.

Duty called. He drove to Okoro Daniel’s mansion as

dusk stretched its fingers over Lagos.

The house screamed wealth. Not quiet, understated wealth, but garish, loud excess. It sprawled across

land that could have housed an entire estate. The driveway alone could have hosted a football match. Polished marble lions flanked the entrance, their stone eyes catching the glow of ornate lanterns. The garden was a gallery of exotic flowers, manicured to military precision. The fountain at the center spewed arcs of water high into the air, glittering in the fading light like shards of glass. His eyes had grown accustomed to such luxury over the past few weeks. He wondered how men who had swore to uphold the law flaunted wealth that stunk of corruption.

Inside, the mansion reeked of money and the kind of power that bent rules rather than obeyed them.

Chandeliers dripped crystal. Persian rugs muted

every footstep. The walls displayed art — originals,

if Karim guessed right — more expensive than most officers’ annual salaries. Everything screamed of a man who had done very well for himself. Too well, perhaps.

Karim’s stomach tightened with resentment. This was the same story he had seen too many times. Men who had worn the badge once, men who had sworn oaths to protect and to serve, who now flaunted riches that could not be explained by their pensions. Their corruption lingered like a stench that even cologne and crystal could not mask.

And now he was here, playing watchdog for one of them. Guarding a man he instinctively despised.

Okoro Daniel himself was not subtle. He greeted Karim with a half-smile, his eyes flitting nervously, his voice overly polished as though practiced for

investors. “Detective Karim. Welcome, welcome. I trust the DSP explained everything? Just a precaution, you know. A terrible business, what

happened to Musa.”

Karim studied him silently, noting the sweat at his temples, the tremor in his hands. Guilt radiated from him like heat. Karim wanted to press, to ask what he knew, what he feared. But before he could, DSP Dewale appeared, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud.

The man had barely acknowledged Karim since the hospital. Their exchanges were curt, charged, laced with unspoken animosity. Tonight was no different. “Detective Karim,” Dewale said flatly, “you’ll be leading the personal security detail for Mr. Okoro. Stay alert.”

Karim’s jaw tightened. He wanted to object, to say that he should be chasing leads, digging into files, not standing guard for a man whose conscience dripped guilt. But he said nothing. He saluted stiffly instead. Dewale’s eyes lingered on him a second too long, as though daring him to protest, before turning away.

Night fell heavy. The mansion quieted, servants retreating to quarters, lights dimming in distant wings. Karim stationed himself in a corridor that overlooked the study where Okoro had locked himself in with brandy and files. The air- conditioning hummed softly. The silence stretched. Midnight approached.

Then it happened.

The faintest scrape. A whisper of metal against metal. Okoro’s ears sharpened, his instincts prickling. He moved silently, following the sound. His pulse quickened. The noise grew clearer — a vent being pried open.

Before he could call out to Karim , shadows spilled into the room. Two figures, masked, lithe, moving with calculated precision. They slipped through the vent like phantoms, landing with the silence of predators.

The intruders did not hesitate. They moved straight for him. A muffled crash, a startled gasp, then chaos. Karim, startled by the sound ran forward, bursting through the door.

Okoro Daniel was bound to his chair, his eyes wild with terror. One of the intruders drove a blade into his chest with savage force, carving as though etching letters into stone. The other held him down, a

gag in his mouth, as blood spurted across the mahogany desk.

Karim’s stomach lurched. The number glistened in

the dark — 2, carved deep into the man’s chest.

“Stop!” Karim shouted, his voice raw, his gun already drawn. Without thinking, without hesitation, he fired.

The crack of the gun split the night. One intruder stumbled, a sharp cry tearing through the air. The other yanked them toward the vent. Smoke bombs exploded, filling the study with acrid haze. Karim coughed, his eyes stinging, his instincts screaming.

He barreled after them anyway.

Through the vent. Into the hall. Out into the night. He followed the blood trail, faint but real, droplets smeared against the marble, leading to the grounds.

The getaway car waited beyond the hedges, engine purring. He sprinted, his lungs burning, his finger tight on the trigger. The car screeched as the door flung open. One intruder clambered inside. The other stumbled out, clutching the door, their mask in their hand.

And then the world tilted.

The figure stood there, gasping for air. And in the glow of the garden lights, Karim saw her.

Jemima.

Her hair tumbled wild over her shoulders, her face pale with strain, her eyes wide — eyes he had memorized, eyes that had haunted him since the bar. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Karim froze. His gun trembled in his hands. His heart slammed against his ribs, not with adrenaline, but with disbelief, with betrayal, with something far worse: recognition.

He knew what he saw. He was certain. Jemima was one of them.

“Why?” The word slipped from his mouth, ragged,

broken.

But he never heard her answer.

A shadow loomed behind him. Pain exploded at the back of his skull. His vision blurred, then collapsed into darkness.

He crumpled to the ground.

By the time backup arrived, the car was gone. The night swallowed Jemima whole