CHAPTER EIGHT
James walked out of Yusuf's ward with a weight that pressed down on him, the kind that refused to loosen even with breath. Mariam's death clung to him like a shadow, heavy and suffocating. Something about it felt wrong. Nothing about it aligned.
The hospital corridor stretched under the harsh fluorescent lights. Each step echoed softly, swallowed by the endless stretch of tiles. Nurses hurried past, doctors murmured instructions, yet all of it felt distant—muted beneath the roar of his own questions.
The lift arrived with a dull chime. James stepped inside, pressed the button, and let the metallic doors close him in. Yusuf's trembling words replayed vividly:
"Why do you think she just suddenly died?"
James exhaled sharply, leaning against the cold wall. The doctors' explanation hadn't sat right. The surgery they claimed to have performed… something about it felt fabricated. Too rushed. Too conveniently tragic.
The lift opened. Ezekiel waited a few steps away, his expression cautious.
"You spoke to him?" he asked quietly.
"He wants answers," James replied. "And he wants someone's head for it."
"That's normal. He lost his sister."
James didn't respond immediately. "Grief shouldn't replace facts," he murmured. "And the facts don't make sense."
Ezekiel hesitated. "You're still thinking about checking on Jacob, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"James—"
But James was already walking.
At Jacob's ward, four policemen stood stationed at the door. Their rigid postures and tense expressions made it clear: entry would not be simple.
James showed his badge. "Detective James Eluwa. I need to see the patient."
The nearest officer shook his head. "This ward is restricted."
"By whose orders?"
"Detective Raymond."
James froze. Raymond, respected and authoritative, had been working alongside the hospital on the case. But the sudden restriction felt… suspicious.
Ezekiel placed a hand on his arm. "Don't push it now."
James' instincts screamed. Every thread of this case twisted into darkness. Something about the ward, the restrictions, the secrecy—it didn't feel like simple procedure. It felt like concealment.
James wondered how Jacob's poisoning might truly be affecting him — the lingering damage, the fear, the vulnerability of someone caught in something far bigger than himself.
For a moment, he felt a surge of frustration. "Fine," he said, voice tight. "But this isn't over."
He allowed Ezekiel to guide him away, though his eyes never left the ward door until it disappeared down the corridor.
At the university, rumours spread like wildfire. Students gathered in tight circles, whispering as if the walls themselves were listening.
"I heard she was recovering," a girl murmured. "The nurses said she was stabilising."
"That's what's strange," her friend replied. "People don't just get better and die within the hour."
The cafeteria buzzed with arguments.
"The CCTV caught Jacob and the others near the hallway. They must've done something."
"Or maybe it's deeper than that."
"Nothing adds up."
On the second floor, two law students leaned over their forum.
"Someone said it could've been suicide," one whispered.
"The timeline doesn't match," the other argued. "And why then? Why at that exact moment?"
"Too coincidental. Something's off."
In his dimly lit office, Dr Jacobs paused in the middle of marking scripts. His mind drifted to Michelle's explanation earlier in class—too sharp, too detailed. The way she dissected the CCTV footage, the timing discrepancies, the subtle suggestion that the obvious suspects might not be the real ones.
He wondered if she had seen more than she had let on.
A knock broke his thoughts.
"Come in."
Michelle stepped in, clutching her books.
"Oh, Michelle," he said, adjusting his posture. "Back again?"
"I wanted to… ask something about the lecture," she murmured.
"Go ahead."
She hesitated. "Sir… what if someone in the CCTV footage isn't who everyone thinks? What if the last person seen leaving wasn't the last person at the scene? Maybe someone staged it… or timed it deliberately."
Dr Jacobs blinked, intrigued. "Explain."
"Switched places. Pretended to leave while someone else remained. Or maybe they planned it to appear innocent," she whispered.
Before he could question her further, the office door opened abruptly.
Detective Raymond entered.
His presence stiffened the room. Michelle tensed, clutching her books.
"You're a criminology student," he observed.
"Yes, sir."
"Then remember this: curiosity doesn't always lead to answers. Sometimes it leads to danger."
Michelle swallowed hard, nodding, and slipped past him.
Raymond shut the door without another word, leaving Dr. Fred uneasy.
James returned to the station later that evening. He requested the full CCTV archive. The technician handed him a flash drive but avoided eye contact.
"Detective… there's a problem."
James raised an eyebrow. "What problem?"
"One of the files is missing."
James' jaw tightened. "Missing?"
"Thirty minutes before the incident… gone. And it was last accessed by… Detective Raymond."
James stood in silence, jaw tight, gripping the drive.
Missing footage.A poisoned boy.A girl who died too suddenly.A surgery that may never have happened.Students who knew too much.
"This case," James muttered, "is darker than I imagined."
At exactly 2:16 a.m., his phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Detective… it's Michelle."
Her voice trembled. "Someone… is following me."
"Where are you? Stay where you are—"
"I'm behind the staff quarters. I—wait—"
A sharp rustling.
Her terrified scream pierced the line.
"MICHELLE!" James shouted.
The call went dead.
Silence swallowed the room, heavy and absolute.
James knew, with chilling certainty, that something terrible had just happened.