Chapter 7: IRENE

The night had ended poorly.

Irene stood by the door of the precinct, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, waiting for her father’s rage to burn itself out. The DSP’s voice still echoed in the room, sharp and unforgiving. When he stormed out moments earlier, cap jammed tightly to his head , his shoulders rigid with fury, he hadn’t so much as glanced at her. He had walked past as though she were invisible, as though she was no more than a shadow clinging to the walls.

That dismissal hurt more than his anger. Shouting she could handle—shouting at least meant he saw her. But this silence, this cold refusal to acknowledge her, was worse. It was erasure.

She closed her eyes briefly, leaning back against the wall. In the room, Karim sagged into his chair, weary after sparring with her father. Salako busied himself with papers, deliberately avoiding the tension. The air still felt thick with hostility, the kind that lingered even after the combatants had left.

Her father’s fury hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, they had been close—closer than she had been with anyone else. As a child, she had adored him. He had been her hero, the stern officer who carried Lagos on his shoulders but still made time to sit with her while she did her homework. He had taught her to ride a bicycle, bought her books no other child in her class could dream of owning, and filled her ears with stories of duty, bravery, and sacrifice.

In those days, she had believed he was incorruptible, untouchable.

Even when she entered university, the bond had held strong. He would call her every Sunday evening, asking about her meals, her classes, reminding her to avoid “the wrong kind of boys.” He boasted to colleagues about her brilliance, proud of the daughter who would carry the family name further than he had.

The rift began when he discovered she had switched departments. She had enrolled for pharmacology— his dream for her, his blueprint. He wanted her in a white coat, in a hospital or a lab, living a respected life with prestige and pay to match. Medicine—or something close to it—was safe, honorable.

But she had chosen forensic science instead.

When he found out, his anger was volcanic. “You want to crawl in the dirt with criminals?” he had shouted down the phone. “You want to spend your life in morgues, with blood, with death? That is not what I planned for you, Irene. That is not what I raised you for!”

She had tried to explain. Forensics wasn’t about death—it was about truth. Someone had to interpret the silence of the dead, to give them a voice when they could no longer speak. Science could solve what guns and intimidation could not. But he hadn’t listened.

He rejected her choice vehemently, and silence became his weapon. For months, he spoke little to her, his eyes sliding past hers whenever she came home. Family dinners turned into performances of clattering plates and heavy air. It was her mother who tried to bridge the gap, reminding him that Irene was already in her penultimate year, that nothing could be done.

Eventually, he softened—or at least pretended to— but the cracks had already formed.

Other clashes followed.

The tattoo, for instance. Small, neat, and deliberate: Veritas. Truth. To her, it was a compass. To him, it was rebellion branded into her skin. “A mark of irresponsibility,” he had spat the night he saw it, peeking from beneath her blouse. “Do you think policemen respect people with such things? Do you think criminals will fear you? You’ve branded yourself like one of them.”

She had argued, pointing out that her mind was sharper than ink, that her respect would come from her work, not her appearance. But he only saw defiance.

Then came the haircut. She had chopped her hair short, loving the freedom, the time saved from endless combing and heat. He had frowned, disdain etched into every line of his face. “You want to look like a boy?” She had snapped back: “It’s my hair.

My body. My choice.” The doors had slammed that night, and silence reigned again.

And then there was Karim.

That had been the final straw.

Karim had started as her colleague—sharp, intuitive, stubborn in ways that both impressed and infuriated her. She admired his mind first, then his integrity, then, reluctantly, his gentleness. He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t carry a gun. He hated blood but still solved cases others wouldn’t dare touch. He wore his orphanhood like armor but never let it break him.

When they started seeing each other, she knew it would become a storm. And when her father found out, it was worse than she feared.

“He will ruin you,” her father thundered. “A man like that—emotional, reckless, too fit for this job— he has no place in your life. Do you think I will let you tarnish my image in this precinct?”

Even after she and Karim parted ways—because she couldn’t bear the pressure, because Karim himself pulled back—her father remained bitter. “I was right,” he said smugly. “I told you so.” He accused her of tarnishing his reputation, dragging personal scandal into professional halls.

Such pettiness, she thought now, almost clasping her hands in mock prayer, smirking at the absurdity of it all.

And Karim hadn’t made it easier. He blamed himself every time the three of them occupied the same space. He stumbled over words, avoided her gaze, folded into himself with guilt. His awkwardness only deepened her father’s contempt.

Alpha men, she thought, rolling her eyes. Always too proud to admit they were hurt. Always pretending their silence was strength. She wanted to strike a mocking pose right there, clap her hands together, and laugh at them both.

Enough. She needed rest.

—

Her apartment was quiet when she returned, the silence greeting her like a balm. She slipped off her shoes at the door, hung her coat in its place, and stepped into her tidy sanctuary.

Everything had its order: books arranged alphabetically, files stacked with clinical precision, her bed made tightly enough to satisfy even the harshest inspector. The curtains were drawn neatly, the ceiling fan humming steadily above.

Her eyes roamed the room, and memory tugged at her. Karim’s first visit here. She could still see him standing by the door, taking it all in, his brow lifting in surprise. “You live like this every day?” he had asked, half surprised, half admiring. She had laughed, proud of her space, proud of the order she had created in a chaotic world.

Now, the memory pricked. She lowered herself onto the bed, lying flat, staring at the ceiling. Inevitably, her thoughts wandered back to him.

She missed him. She missed the way he thought too much but still saw what others didn’t. She missed the stubborn crease in his brow when he chased a lead, the gentleness he rarely showed but that she had glimpsed enough times to crave.

Since their separation, she had tried to move on. She had downloaded dating apps at first, swiping through faces that blurred together after a while. Bankers, engineers, entrepreneurs—they looked polished, but the conversations died quickly. Some were impatient, eager to skip past words. Others wore dishonesty like cologne, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

She had tried blind dates too, letting friends set her up. Dinners with men who thought “ambition” meant money alone, men who looked at her body before her eyes, men who assumed she wanted to be rescued instead of respected.

None of them measured up.

Being with Karim had ruined her in a way. He had raised her standards higher than was normal, higher than most men she met could reach. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he was steady, sharp, and unwilling to bend for comfort. Once you had known someone like that, it was impossible to un-know it. Every man who came after was a pale shadow, fumbling against the silhouette he left behind.

And so she had drifted, neither fully letting go of him nor finding someone new.

Her father’s scorn hadn’t helped. His disapproval of her personal life hung like a sentence over her, narrowing her choices, deepening her isolation. She wondered if Karim ever thought of her, if he missed her as she missed him.

But thoughts changed nothing. She closed her eyes, surrendering to exhaustion, telling herself she would sleep until the autopsy results arrived.

—

Karim, meanwhile, drove through the restless city, his own thoughts dark.

The streets roared with life—okadas weaving recklessly, buses honking in impatient chorus, hawkers thrusting goods at car windows. But he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, locked on one thing: the address Aisha had given him. She had scribbled it down on the second day, her hand trembling, her eyes wet with tears.

He arrived at the building, a narrow structure in Surulere, and climbed the staircase to the apartment she claimed was hers. He knocked. No answer. Knocked again, harder.

A tired woman in a headscarf opened the door. She looked at him blankly as he asked for Aisha.

“No one by that name lives here,” she said flatly.

He pressed for details—had anyone like Aisha ever lived here? The woman shook her head. “We’ve been here five years. Never heard that name.”

Karim stepped back, the words heavy. The address had been a lie. A decoy.

He descended the stairs slowly, each step ringing with accusation. Outside, the humid air clung to him like a punishment. He leaned against his car, jaw tight.

He had failed.

He had let emotion cloud his judgment. He had seen Aisha’s tears, her trembling hands, the terror in her eyes—and he had chosen mercy. He had chosen trust when he should have chosen caution. He had let her slip away instead of placing an officer on her, instead of making sure she stayed within reach.

And now she was gone.

For all he knew, the real killer was already in the wind.