CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The second phone

The phone didn't stop ringing.

On the detective's desk, the screen pulsed.

*CHIKA*

The detective stared at Jidenna. Jidenna stared at me.

"Put it on speaker," Jidenna said.

The detective swiped.

"Hello?" he said, his voice all officer again, hard and flat. "Who is this?"

Static. Then breathing. Fast, shallow.

Then a woman's voice — but wrong. Hoarse. Broken.

" — don't come. Don't —"

"Chika?" I said before I could stop myself. I stepped forward. "Chika, is that you?"

A sharp inhale on the other end. Like she recognized my voice and it terrified her.

"[Y/N]?" she whispered. It was her. It was really her. "You shouldn't — they said you went to the station — listen to me —"

The line crackled violently.

A second voice cut in. A man's. Calm. Too calm.

"She's not very good at following instructions."

Chika made a sound. A choked sob.

Jidenna's hand slammed down on the desk. "Who is this? Where is she?"

The man laughed, soft. "You have a beautiful house, Jidenna. Very private. Shame about the flowerpots. You should fire your gardener. He missed a spot."

My blood went cold.

The camera. He knew about the camera.

"You were in our compound," Jidenna said. His voice dropped. Dangerous. "You were inside our bedroom wall."

"I was invited," the man said. "By her."

"You're lying."

"Am I? Ask your friend Chika how she got the code to your side gate. Ask her how she got the photos of your wife sleeping."

"Don't listen to him!" Chika screamed suddenly, clear and raw. "He took my phone! He took my phone the night — the night David died! Jidenna, I didn't — I never —"

The line cut to a muffled scuffle. Chika crying out. Then silence.

Then the man's voice again, closer to the mic now.

"You want the truth? Come to the location she sent you. Alone. Both of you. No police. If I see one uniform, I send everything I have — the bedroom pictures, the videos from that camera, and the recording of Chika inside the victim's car — to every blog in Lagos."

The call ended.

Dead tone.

The detective was already moving. "We can trace that — we can triangulate —"

"No," Jidenna said. He was looking at my phone. At the live location pin that was still pulsing.

400 meters away.

Behind the police station.

"He's not 400 meters away," I whispered. "He wants us to think he is."

Jidenna looked at me.

"What?"

"The Polaroid," I said. My hands were shaking again, but my mind was suddenly, terribly clear. "The Polaroid of Chika in the car. Look at the background. Those are OUR gates. She wasn't behind the station when that was taken. She was at the mansion. Today. While we were here."

The detective picked up the Polaroid again. Zoomed in with his eyes.

Jidenna's phone rang this time.

His lawyer.

He answered.

"Yes?"

He listened. Two seconds. Three.

Then he went completely still.

"Say that again."

He put it on speaker.

The lawyer's voice was shaking. "Jidenna, the police just released the name of the victim's second phone contact to the press. It leaked. They're saying on I*******m that Chika was his girlfriend. That you killed him because of her."

I looked at Jidenna.

The mansion.

The bedroom photo.

The murder accusation.

The camera.

Now this.

It was never about murder.

It was about making everyone believe Jidenna had a motive.

Someone has been writing his story page by page — and making us read it.

Outside the small office, the hallway was suddenly filled with flashing lights.

Red and blue.

Not police.

Press.

Someone had told them we were here.