Secrets we buried

Chapter 5: True Lies

“You’re lying,” he said.

Just three words. Short, blunt, but heavy enough to shake me inside.

I tried not to flinch, but his eyes were boring into mine, searching for cracks, searching for the truth I was hiding.

“Why do you think I’m lying?” My voice came out calmer than I felt. “Is there something you think I’m hiding? Is there something you want to tell me? You’re supposed to be my cousin, Jackson… or should I say my new cousin. I’m only trying to find out where I belong. Why do you always look at me like I’m some stranger to be feared?”

He took three slow steps toward me, his shoes crunching against the gravel like warning drums. His gaze was unwavering, almost desperate.

And right there, I switched tactics. I couldn’t afford another clash with him. If I wanted to survive this, I had to be strategic. So I forced a softness into my tone, tilted my head slightly, and whispered,

“Brother… I am not your enemy.”

For a moment, he froze. His body stilled like he had been pinned into the ground. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there — a statue of suspicion.

“Well, I have to go now.” I forced a faint smile and walked past him, my heart thundering inside my chest.

The second the gate creaked behind me, I ran.

I didn’t look back. My legs carried me with a speed I didn’t know I still had, the cold air slicing into my lungs, the night air whipping against my skin. But unlike before, my eyes were clear. I knew exactly where I was going.

The prison.

Michael’s prison.

By the time I got there, five minutes later, I was breathless and drenched in sweat. The stench hit me first — sour urine clinging to the walls, damp mold crawling across broken bricks. The air itself smelled like despair.

Michael. Mikey.

The thought of him sitting here, trapped in this filth, made my throat tighten. He didn’t deserve this. He had been an orphan like me, left with nothing but his father’s rundown apartment, his only inheritance. He had known hunger, hardship, the kind of work that bends a boy’s back before he even becomes a man.

And now this. Locked up because he loved a cursed woman like me.

I swallowed the guilt and pushed forward into the visitation hall.

There he was.

Michael sat stiffly behind a desk, waiting for visitors he probably knew would never come. His eyes lifted when I entered, but they weren’t the eyes I remembered — no spark, no laughter. Just hollow weariness.

“Mikey,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

His head snapped up. His brows furrowed. “What did you call me?”

I cursed myself silently. Only Phina had called him that. Only her.

I scrambled, forcing a casual smile.

“Uh—Michael. Sorry. Anna told me you liked being called Mikey.”

He studied me carefully, suspicion etched into every line of his face.

“I just came to see how you’re doing,” I added quickly.

His lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Or you came to check if I was dead?”

“Not funny,” I shot back, trying to hide the c***k in my voice.

He leaned forward, his voice low and sharp.

“Who are you?”

I extended my hand across the desk, praying he wouldn’t notice the tremor in my fingers.

“I’m Martha. Roseline’s adopted daughter.”

For a heartbeat, he just stared at my hand. Then slowly, cautiously, he reached for it. Our palms touched, and something electric surged through me. For that brief moment, it felt like words weren’t needed — like we were speaking to each other without sound.

I wanted to scream at him: It’s me. You know me. Remember? I was thinner then. Remember how you used to save a piece of your food for me, even though you barely had enough yourself? You promised you’d become rich one day, so you could make me comfortable. You made me laugh with those dry, ridiculous jokes. I’ve missed you.

But the words lodged in my throat. I couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I whispered,

“I think Phina would want you to get justice.”

His face hardened.

“No one in this town believes me. So why do you?”

This was Michael — unmasked, raw, honest.

I forced a small smile.

“If you were guilty, you’d be clawing at the walls to get out of here. But you’re… calm. Almost like you don’t want to live anymore.”

His gaze faltered.

“You’re right. I really don’t think there’s anything worth living for. Phina was my one thread of hope. And she’s gone.”

The words cut through me like blades. My chest clenched, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe.

Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he muttered,

“But… I have a piece that can vindicate me. A journal of secrets.”

My heart stopped. My journal.

“But it’s not that simple,” he continued. His hands trembled on the desk. “If I present it, they’ll know I’m innocent. But they’ll also know what Phina was hiding from everyone.”

He paused. His eyes flicked to mine, heavy with torment.

“That she was pregnant.”

The room tilted around me. Pregnant. The word screamed inside my skull.

I didn’t know whether to feel relief — relief that he had found my journal before Uncle P cleared my things — or terror that the world might now uncover what I had buried so deeply.

No. I wouldn’t let a past that no one could even tie to me rob Michael of the chance to live again.

“You strike me as someone who always wanted to be rich,” I said softly, fighting the tears, “and take care of Phina.”

Something broke in him then. His eyes brimmed, and before I could blink, he was sobbing like a child.

I reached across the desk, aching to hold him.

“I don’t think Phina would be mad at you for trying to save yourself.”

We both sat there, shattered in silence, knowing tomorrow would change everything.

The next day, the courtroom buzzed like a disturbed hive. I sat at the far aisle, hands clasped tightly, my heart beating so loud I was sure people could hear it.

Michael was summoned forward, his chains clinking with every step. He looked smaller under the weight of the crowd’s stares, but there was something steadier in his eyes — resolve.

The prosecution began.

“Is there anything the defendant would like to say?”

Michael raised his head. His voice was low but clear.

“Yes, my Lord.”

And then, with trembling hands, he presented the journal.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the courtroom. The judge leaned forward, flipping to a marked page. The silence was suffocating as he began to read aloud.

“Today, the first of December, 8:10 p.m. I am set to go on a date with the love of my life and my best friend. Maybe today I’ll summon the courage to tell him about his baby. I’m pregnant for him.”

Gasps filled the room. Benches creaked. Whispers slithered across the hall like wildfire.

“Pregnant?!”

“Phina?!”

“Jackson was the father?”

Aunt Roseline sat dead white. My stomach dropped. All eyes turned.

From the corner of my vision, I saw Jackson’s face twist. His knees buckled, and before anyone could stop him, he collapsed with a cry that wasn’t human.

But he was up in an instant, his face contorted in rage, his eyes bloodshot. He lunged at Ann, spittle flying as he roared:

“What did you not tell me this?! How could you do this to me? My baby! You let me—You let me loose my baby?!”

The courtroom erupted into chaos. Guards rushed forward. People screamed.

And for the first time, I saw Jackson break. He wailed like a child, grief and fury tangled together in a storm that shook the room.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to unfold. Jackson was supposed to be the villain, the heartless monster. But here he was, unraveling genuine anguish before everyone’s eyes.

The ground seemed to cave beneath me. My head spun.

And then, across the room, my gaze found Michael’s. His eyes were steady on me, filled with something that made my skin crawl.

I thought this was the end.

How foolish.

This wasn’t the end.

This was the beginning of something far darker.

The spark that would set everything ablaze.