The Maid's Secret

Chapter 8: What Thabo Knew

"My father isn't just wealthy from investments," Thabo began, his voice barely rising above the hiss of the lamp's flame. "That's the story he tells at dinner parties. Property, stocks, a few lucky decisions in the market. It's not entirely a lie — but it's not the truth either."

"What is the truth?"

"The vials you saw." He rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly older than his years. "My father runs something through this house. A network. I don't know all of it — I've spent years deliberately not knowing, if I'm honest. But I know it involves people who can't afford to be seen, moving things that can't afford to be traced. The driver, the case, the Tuesday and Thursday visits — that's just one thread of it."

Leyano's stomach twisted. "And the staff crest on the documents?"

"The estate is part of the cover. Deliveries disguised as household supplies. Staff used as couriers, sometimes, without even realizing what they're carrying." His eyes found hers, heavy with something like an apology. "That's what I think happened to Ntombi. I think she carried something without knowing it, or she saw something she wasn't supposed to see — the way you did — and she became a liability instead of an asset."

"You think your father—" Leyano couldn't finish the sentence.

"I don't know what he did to her," Thabo said quietly. "I've told myself for three years that I don't know, because knowing would mean I had to do something about it, and I was too much of a coward to face that. I'm not proud of that, Leyano. But I'm telling you now because I don't want you to end up another name nobody talks about."

The lamp flickered between them, throwing long shadows across the shed's cluttered shelves. Leyano wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the small space.

"Why tell me all this instead of just warning me to leave? Wouldn't that be safer? For both of us?"

"Because I don't think you'd listen." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "And because some small, stubborn part of me is tired of being safe while people disappear."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the wind moved through the hedges, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, twice, then fell silent.

"What do we do?" Leyano finally asked.

"We?" Thabo raised an eyebrow, though something in his posture eased slightly at the word.

"You said someone needs to know. You said I'm the only one brave enough to do something. That doesn't sound like a solo mission to me."

He studied her for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes — surprise, maybe, or the first real flicker of hope he'd allowed himself in years. "There's a second set of records," he said finally. "Somewhere in that locked room on the third floor. My father keeps everything documented — arrogance, mostly, or insurance against his own partners turning on him. If we could get inside, get proof—"

"We could go to the police."

"If we survive long enough to reach them." His expression darkened. "My father isn't the only dangerous person connected to this. There are others above him, people he answers to. People I've never even seen, but I've heard him on the phone with, late at night, sounding more frightened than I've ever heard him sound with anyone."

Leyano's pulse quickened, fear and resolve tangling together in her chest. "Then we'll need a plan. A real one. Not just sneaking up a staircase and hoping no one hears the floorboards."

"No," Thabo agreed, a spark of something like determination finally breaking through the guilt that had weighed down his features all evening. "We'll need to be smarter than that. Smarter than Ntombi was, God rest whatever happened to her."

He extended his hand, an odd, formal gesture between them in the lamplit dark.

"Partners, then. Until we find out the truth — whatever it costs us."

Leyano hesitated only a moment before taking his hand, her grip steady despite the tremor she could feel beneath her own skin.

"Partners," she agreed.

Outside the shed, the wind picked up, rattling the old window in its frame, and somewhere back at the house, a light flicked on in an upstairs room that should have been empty at this hour.

Neither of them saw it. But the house, as it always seemed to, was watching.