Glory hadn't slept. The sun was already cutting through the half-closed blinds, striping the carpet in pale gold. She sat on the edge of the bed, the USB stick lying on the nightstand like a ticking bomb. David was in the shower again — the water running forever, drowning out everything they didn't say.
She clutched her phone in both hands. The last message still glowed on the screen.
"Pay up. Or everyone sees what you did."
Her thumb hovered over the reply button. She knew she should wake David, show him, tell him everything swirling in her chest — but the thought of his eyes on her, cold and hollow, made her stomach twist. She couldn't lose him. Not now, not like this.
The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying David with it. His hair dripped onto the towel slung around his neck. He paused when he saw her, his face guarded — so different from the man who used to wake her up with kisses and lazy morning jokes.
"Did they text again?" he asked. Straight to the point.
Glory swallowed. "No."
He studied her, his jaw tightening. He didn't believe her — she could see it in the flicker of his eyes.
He dropped the towel on the dresser and pulled a shirt over his damp hair. "I called a friend," he said. "A private investigator. He's good. Discreet. He'll meet us today."
"David—" She stood up, reaching for him, but he stepped back before she could touch him. The space he left behind felt like a door slamming shut.
"You should be the one to talk to him," he said. "Tell him everything. No more secrets, Glory. Not one."
She forced a nod. Her throat burned. She wanted to scream I'm doing this for you, but she didn't know if that was true anymore.
They met the investigator in a corner booth of a hotel café downtown — neutral ground, away from gossiping neighbors or curious reporters who still circled the tragedy like hungry wolves, even after three years.
His name was Mr. Bello. An older man, bald except for a thin crown of gray hair, wearing a cheap suit and glasses perched halfway down his nose. He looked like someone's boring uncle — the kind of man you'd never notice in a room, and that made Glory trust him a little more than she should have.
David did the talking. Glory sat beside him, her palms sweating under the table. Mr. Bello listened quietly, nodding now and then, scribbling notes with an old pen.
When David paused, Bello looked at Glory over his glasses. "Tell me about the night Cynthia died."
Glory's chest squeezed. She felt David's eyes on her, burning holes in her skin. She took a breath.
"I was supposed to meet David in Lagos," she said, her voice small. "We planned to leave that night. Just disappear for a while — no gossip, no rumors. Start over."
Bello scribbled. "And Cynthia?"
"She wasn't supposed to be home. But she came back early. She found me waiting for him… in the garden."
She felt David flinch beside her. She forced herself not to look at him.
"She asked me… if I loved him. If I would take him if she left. I lied. I told her no." She wiped her palms on her skirt. "But she saw it in my face. She knew."
Bello leaned forward slightly. "And the accident?"
Glory's fingers twisted the napkin in her lap. "She was angry. She threw her ring at me. She left… crying. She wasn't watching the road."
Bello tapped his pen. "Did anyone else know you were there that night?"
Glory hesitated. "I didn't think so. But the video…" She looked at David. "Someone was watching."
Bello nodded once. "Someone who knew it was worth filming."
David's hand closed around his coffee cup like he wanted to crush it. "And now they're using it to bleed us dry."
Bello flipped his notebook shut. "Send me the messages. I'll trace the number. Meanwhile—" He pointed the pen at Glory. "If they contact you again, you tell me first. Not him."
David bristled. "Why?"
"Because you're emotional," Bello said bluntly. "She's the target. You're just leverage. If you want this to end, you stay calm. Let me handle the dirty work."
David looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. He just pushed back his chair and stood. "How long will it take?"
Bello shrugged. "Could be a day. Could be a week. Depends how sloppy this person is."
Glory felt the weight of the USB in her purse like a stone dragging her under.
Back at the house, David didn't speak on the drive. His silence filled the car like thick smoke. When they parked, he didn't wait for her — he went straight inside, the door swinging open so hard it rattled the frame.
Glory sat behind the wheel for a full minute, staring at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked tired. Old. Like she'd aged a decade in the span of an hour.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:"Tonight. 10 PM. Bring 5 million. Come alone."
Her chest seized. She typed back before she could think:
"Where?"
A pause. Then:
"The garden. Where it ended."
She stared at the message until the screen dimmed. Then she glanced at the house. She could see David's silhouette through the window — pacing, talking to himself, a man building walls around his own heart.
She knew if she told him, he'd try to fix it. Or fight it. Or break something he couldn't fix.
She couldn't let him do that. Not again.
That night, she waited until David fell asleep on the couch, an empty glass still in his hand. She stepped around him like he was glass herself — one wrong touch, and he'd shatter.
She took the car keys, her purse, the cash she'd hidden months ago. Emergency money. She didn't think she'd ever use it like this.
The drive to the old house felt like drifting backward through time. Every turn in the road brought back something she didn't want — Cynthia's laughter echoing off the garden walls, David's promises whispered under rose vines, secrets they'd all pretended not to see.
The garden gate was still half-broken. She slipped through it, her heels sinking into the soft earth. The roses were overgrown now, wild and tangled, like they'd been mourning too.
She stood by the old stone bench, clutching the envelope of cash to her chest. The moon sat heavy above the trees, making shadows look alive.
A twig snapped behind her.
Glory spun around. A shape stepped out of the dark — tall, hood up, face hidden. Male, she thought. Or maybe she just hoped so.
"You came alone?" The voice was muffled — not familiar, but not a stranger's either. Her stomach flipped.
"I have the money," she said, holding out the envelope. Her voice cracked on the last word.
The figure laughed — a soft, humorless sound that made her skin crawl. "This isn't about money."
She took a step back. "You said—"
"I said what I had to. To get you here." The figure stepped closer. Moonlight caught the edge of his jaw. Young. Too young.
She swallowed. "Who are you?"
"You know me," the figure said. "You just don't remember yet."
Glory's knees nearly buckled. She clutched the bench for balance. "What do you want?"
He lifted a phone, the screen flickering with the frozen video of that night — Cynthia throwing the ring, Glory picking it up, the shadow lurking behind her.
"I want you to tell him the truth," the figure said. "Or I will."
Glory's breath came in ragged gasps. "Why?"
"Because she deserved better." The figure stepped closer, so close she could see the glint of tears in his eyes. "You both did."
Glory's voice trembled. "Did you love her?"
The figure's laugh was softer this time — sad, broken. "She was my sister."
Glory's mind reeled. "Cynthia didn't have a brother."
The figure tilted his head. "No. But she had me."
He turned and melted into the shadows before she could move. The garden swallowed him whole, leaving Glory alone with the weight of the cash still clutched in her frozen hand.
Her phone buzzed in the silence.
Unknown Number:"Next time, you bring him. Or I bring her back."
Glory sank to the cold bench, her breath fogging in the moonlight. For the first time, she understood — the dead were never really gone. Some ghosts wore your face. Some used your secrets like knives.
And now, she was out of places to hide.