The Raymond household was unusually quiet that Sunday afternoon. The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting long shadows across the tiled floors. A gentle breeze rustled the lace curtains in the sitting room, and somewhere in the backyard, birds chirped in the stillness.
Beatrice sat alone on the sofa, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the television, though the news anchor's voice had long faded into the background. Her mind was spinning. Questions, suspicions, fragments of images—all crowding her thoughts like a swarm of bees she couldn't chase away.
Sally had stepped out an hour ago for an impromptu meeting, leaving the house unusually still. Beatrice had seized the opportunity.
She turned her head slowly and called out, "Dexta!"
There was no response.
She stood up and walked toward the hallway. "Dexta! Come here!"
A moment later, the small boy appeared, his footsteps hesitant, his eyes cautious. He held a half-eaten apple in one hand, the other tugging at the hem of his oversized T-shirt.
"Yes, Mom?" he said softly, standing near the edge of the room.
"Come and sit," Beatrice ordered, patting the couch beside her.
Dexta walked over slowly and sat at the far end, leaving a noticeable space between them. Beatrice studied him for a moment. His hair was freshly cut, and his little face glowed with the innocence of childhood. But what annoyed her most was the joy he had returned with just hours earlier—that same joy he always wore after Sundays with his father.
"Tell me," she began calmly, "where do you always go with your dad every Sunday?"
Dexta blinked. "We go to visit Daddy's friends," he replied without much thought.
"Which friends?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Just… friends."
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "Where do you go exactly?"
Dexta hesitated. "Uhm… Lugogo."
"Lugogo?" she repeated. "And what's in Lugogo that you people go to every single Sunday?"
He was quiet. His small fingers fidgeted with the apple in his lap.
Beatrice's voice hardened. "Don't pretend you don't know, Dexta. You're not a baby."
Still no response.
She leaned closer, her tone now sharp and cutting. "And why do you go to Orbit International School in Entebbe, hmm? Who do you go to see there?"
Dexta froze.
His chest rose and fell a little faster. The apple slipped from his fingers and rolled onto the floor. His hands curled into tight fists in his lap. He kept his eyes down, refusing to meet hers.
Beatrice leaned back, crossing her arms. "I asked you a question, Dexta."
But the boy said nothing.
In his mind, Dexta was panicking.
"If I talk, Mom will beat me. If I say anything about Zaria… she'll get mad. Daddy told me to never talk about her here. What do I do?"
"Answer me!" Beatrice suddenly snapped.
Dexta flinched, his shoulders rising defensively. Still, he remained silent.
Beatrice stood up abruptly, towering over him. "So you've started keeping secrets from your own mother now?"
Dexta's lips trembled. He wanted to speak, but fear had already closed his throat. He thought about the laughs he shared with Zaria, the kind way she listened to him, how Sally always smiled more when they were all together. He couldn't destroy that. But the pressure was building, and he didn't know how much longer he could stay quiet.
Beatrice's voice turned cold. "You think I don't know what's going on? You think I'm stupid?"
Dexta looked away.
In a sharp, bitter tone, she spat, "Go to your room. You good-for-nothing little boy."
The words stung like a slap.
Dexta's eyes welled with tears, but he didn't let them fall. He jumped up and ran toward the hallway, his small feet thudding on the tiles as he disappeared into his room and slammed the door shut.
Beatrice stood alone, breathing heavily.
Her chest heaved with unspoken rage—not just at Dexta's silence, but at the feeling of losing control over her family. Her husband was distant. Her son was hiding things. And this unknown girl, whoever she was, had somehow managed to wedge herself into the heart of both.
She sat down slowly, her heart pounding.
Her mind replayed Jacob's last report again. Still no confirmed identity of the girl… still no clear photos.
But Beatrice had connected the dots.
That girl was important to Sally—important enough to take Dexta every Sunday, to smile in ways he never smiled at home, to spend hours in Entebbe just to see her.
Who was she?
Why was she at the center of Sally's happiness?
Why was Dexta protecting her?
And—most haunting of all—why did Beatrice feel a strange, cold chill every time she thought about her?
---
In his room, Dexta lay curled on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His throat was dry, and his chest tight. He didn't understand everything, but he knew one thing: something was wrong with his mom.
She wasn't like Zaria.
Zaria never shouted. She never called him names. She made him feel seen, heard… loved.
But now he was scared—scared he might have said too much, or that one day Zaria would be hurt too.
"I should've just said we go to church," he thought. "Maybe she wouldn't be mad."
Tears slipped down the sides of his face, soaking into the pillow. He didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to lose the little piece of happiness he had found.
---
Back in the living room, Beatrice poured herself a glass of water, but it didn't soothe the fire burning inside her.
Something wasn't right.
And she was going to find out what—even if it meant breaking every rule, crossing every line, and uncovering truths she once buried.
She had no idea the very girl she sought to uncover… was the child she had once thrown away.