Chapter Five: Unraveling Threads

Amara sat on the edge of the massive bed, the envelope open in her lap, her fingers trembling slightly as she stared down at the photograph.

Her father looked younger than she remembered—less tired, more alert—but there was no mistaking his gaze. Thoughtful, sharp. The kind of look he wore when he was about to make a calculated move in chess.

But it was the woman beside him that made Amara’s breath catch in her throat.

Maya. Younger, too—perhaps in her thirties. Wearing a floral dress, soft makeup, and what looked like a wedding ring.

Amara flipped the photo again.

Those words still sliced deeper the second time around.

“Trust no one. Not even him.”

She stared at the message, heart thudding. The handwriting was familiar—faded but familiar. Her father’s script, more rushed than usual.

She rose to her feet and turned the envelope over again. No return address. No stamp. It hadn’t come by post.

Someone had come into the house—this house—and placed it here.

While she was at the engagement dinner.

While Ezekiel was with her.

A chill ran up her spine.

Was someone watching her?

Was Maya behind it?

Or was it a ghost from her father’s past finally coming out of the shadows?

She barely slept that night.

Instead, she sat cross-legged on the floor by the window, the photo propped beside her and her sketchbook on her lap.

She hadn’t drawn in weeks—months, really. Not seriously. But now, her hands moved with the frantic need to translate emotion into form. She sketched the photo again, line by line, shading Maya’s face until it looked more like a mask than a woman.

She drew her father next. Except this time, she added bars behind him. Prison bars. Secrets. Lies.

By dawn, her fingers were covered in graphite.

The sketch was done. But the questions had just begun.

By the time Ezekiel knocked on her door, she was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, her head wrapped in a silk scarf, and her expression unreadable.

“You’re up early,” he said.

She stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind her. “Did someone come into this house last night?”

He frowned. “Not that I know of.”

“Security footage?”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer.

He narrowed his eyes. “What happened?”

She pulled the envelope from her pocket and handed it to him.

Ezekiel opened it. Looked at the photo. Read the message.

Silence.

“You recognize it?” she asked.

His jaw worked as he stared at the image. “Where did you get this?”

“It was on my bed when I returned from the dinner.”

“You’re saying someone got past the guards, past the biometric locks, and into your private room?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He turned the photo in his hand, then looked up at her. “You think it was Maya?”

“I think Maya would prefer to say it to my face.” Amara folded her arms. “This feels… different. Personal.”

Ezekiel stared at the image again, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I need to make a call.”

“To who?”

“Our head of internal security.”

Amara tilted her head. “So this does worry you.”

He didn’t respond. Which was answer enough.

By noon, the estate was buzzing. Guards doubled. Passcodes changed. Cameras checked.

Ezekiel spent most of the morning in his private office. Amara used the time to dig into the one thing that might give her answers: her father’s past.

She’d brought what little she had with her—an old file folder with his name on it, some photographs, a work permit, and a letter of commendation from a company called Obi-Meta Engineering, now long defunct.

Among the papers was something she hadn’t noticed before: a faded memo bearing the Kalu family seal. It wasn’t signed, but it was dated. 2009.

She cross-referenced it with a photo of her father and Maya from the same year. Something clicked.

Her father didn’t just know the Kalus. He worked for them.

She dug deeper.

A quick online search brought up scattered references to Kalu Foundation land acquisitions in 2009—one of which was mired in quiet scandal. Land disputes. Misallocated funds. A project that had been shut down.

Her father had been a project manager.

He’d disappeared the following year.

Amara’s stomach sank.

It wasn’t just a contract marriage anymore.

She was standing on the edge of a cover-up.

Ezekiel found her in the study two hours later, surrounded by papers.

“I spoke to security. No signs of forced entry, no gaps in footage. No one came in—or so it seems.”

She held up the photo. “Then how do you explain this?”

He took a slow breath, then sat opposite her.

“My father kept a lot of secrets. Maya even more. Whatever this is—it’s bigger than both of us.”

Amara studied him. “You knew she knew my father.”

“No. I suspected something when you mentioned your last name. But I wasn’t sure.”

“You still haven’t asked what I want.”

“Because I already know.”

She raised a brow.

“You want the truth.”

She said nothing.

“So do I,” he added.

They sat in silence, both weighed down by too many invisible stones.

Finally, Amara said, “I need to find out what happened in 2009. What your family buried. What mine lost.”

Ezekiel met her eyes. “Then we do it together.”

That afternoon, Ezekiel took her to the Kalu Foundation archives—an underground vault in the city center, guarded like a treasure room.

“Not even Maya has access here without clearance,” he said.

It was darker than Amara expected. Dim yellow lights buzzed overhead, and the air smelled faintly of dust and polish.

Rows of locked cabinets stretched out before them.

Ezekiel scanned his palm and the lights flickered on. The database booted up.

“What are we looking for specifically?” he asked.

“2009. Obi-Meta Engineering. Any land project files tied to your father or Maya.”

They worked side by side, silent and efficient.

Files loaded. Scanned. Deleted. Flagged.

At first, nothing made sense.

Then—bingo.

PROJECT NIGHTHAWK.

Status: Terminated.

Lead Engineer: Ifeanyi Obi.

Supervisor: Maya Kalu.

Details: Confidential – Requires Override Clearance

Ezekiel stared at the screen.

“I’ve never seen this project before,” he said.

Amara leaned closer. “Override it.”

He hesitated. “If I do this, Maya will know.”

“She already knows we’re digging.”

He exhaled and typed in a string of master commands.

The screen blinked. A file opened.

Amara leaned in—and froze.

Photos of land maps. Displacement notices. Internal memos citing “false land ownership.” Eviction records.

It wasn’t just a failed project.

It was a scandal.

Maya had overseen the demolition of an entire low-income community under false pretenses.

And Amara’s father had helped—until he tried to report it.

The last memo was from him:

“I can’t be part of this. If you don’t shut it down, I will go to the press.”

Dated two weeks before his disappearance.

Amara covered her mouth.

“Oh my God.”

Ezekiel sat back, pale. “She buried it.”

“She buried him.”

Amara’s world tilted. Her hands were shaking.

“Why would she do that?” she whispered. “Why would she—?”

“She had motive. Greed. Control. He was a whistleblower.”

Amara felt sick. “She didn’t just make him disappear. She erased him.”

Ezekiel stood. “We need to get out of here.”

“But—”

He grabbed her hand. “Now.”

They left the archives and returned to the mansion, both tense, both silent.

Back in the main hall, a package was waiting.

Unmarked. Small.

Inside, a flash drive. No note.

They loaded it onto Ezekiel’s private laptop.

One file.

A video.

Amara clicked play.

It was grainy footage. A man being dragged into a dark SUV by two men in suits.

The timestamp: 2010.

The man: Ifeanyi Obi.

Her father.

Alive. Fighting.

Screaming her name.

Then gone.

Cut to black.

Amara collapsed onto the couch, hands over her face.

Ezekiel stood behind her, stiff.

Then his phone buzzed. A private number.

He answered.

A voice—familiar, raspy, male.

“You’re getting too close. Call off your little wife. Or next time, it’s not just old footage we’ll be sending.”