The Glove Remembers.

Chapter 7: Phase Two

Hayes’ gun wasn’t shaking.

That’s what scared me most.

A man who pulls a gun should shake. Doubt. Adrenaline. Fear. Hayes was calm. Like he’d rehearsed this in front of a mirror.

The nurse stepped into room four and shut the door. Quiet click. She couldn’t be older than 25. Hijab, neat scrubs, name tag: _A. Bello, RN_. Her phone was still recording. Red light blinking.

“Phase two, Miss Eze,” Hayes repeated. “You’re going to tell us where the rest of it is.”

Ife moved before I could. One step. Between me and the gun. Nurse training. Body as shield. “Put that down,” she said. “This is a hospital. There are cameras.”

“Not in here,” the nurse said. A. Bello. Her voice was soft. Abuja accent. “Maintenance request. Room four CCTV down since 01:00.”

Planned. All of it.

Tunde was frozen by the window. He looked at Hayes, then at A. Bello, then at the biohazard bag in my hand. “You,” he said to the nurse. “You were at Blend. Last month. With Zara.”

A. Bello didn’t blink. “Miss Eze was a patient here. Three times. I helped her.”

“Helped her with what?” Ife said.

“With you,” A. Bello said to me.

The room got colder.

Hayes gestured with the gun. “The SD card. Hand it over.”

I clutched the glove tighter. The micro SD was still sewn into the lining. _For Amara._ Zara’s handwriting. “There is no ‘rest of it’. This is all she left.”

“Bullshit,” said a new voice.

The curtain didn’t just open. It _tore_. The metal rings screamed against the rail.

A man stepped through.

He didn’t duck. The doorframe was 6’4”. He was 6’5”. Gray suit, tailored. No tie. First button open like he owned the air in the room. His shoes didn’t squeak on the linoleum. They _silenced_ it.

I knew the face before I knew the name.

You couldn’t live in Abuja and not know it.

It was on billboards for “Police Is Your Friend Week.” It was on NTA at 9pm after every major bust. It was in my living room three months ago, on my TV, telling the whole country:

_“Zara Eze’s death was a tragic suicide. Case closed. Let the family heal.”_

*Commissioner Ibrahim Dasuki.* Head of FCT Police Command. 55 years old. 32 years in service. Three national honors. The man who shook the President’s hand last Independence Day.

The man my sister was investigating.

He didn’t look at the gun in Hayes’ hand. He didn’t look at A. Bello’s scalpel. He didn’t look at the biohazard bag.

He looked at me.

And smiled.

It was the same smile from the press conference. Fatherly. Disappointed. The smile that said _you’ve embarrassed me, child_.

“Amara Eze,” he said. His voice was soft. Radio-voiced. The voice that calmed riots on live TV. “You’ve caused a lot of problems for a podcast editor.”

Behind him, two more tactical officers filled the doorway. Not Okeke’s people. His people. No name tags. No faces. Just black vests and silence.

Dasuki stepped fully into room four. The temperature didn’t drop. It _submitted_.

Ife went still beside me. I felt her breath catch. Even Tunde, who’d faced Hayes down, took a half-step back.

This wasn’t a cop.

This was _the Police_.

Dasuki adjusted his cufflinks. Gold. Engraved. _I.D._ His initials. Or _Inspector Dasuki_, from 1993. “Phase one was containment,” he said, like he was explaining a budget to interns. “Close the case. Discredit the sister. Make it suicide.”

He finally glanced at Hayes. A flick. Dismissal. “Your theatrics at the apartment were unnecessary, Kelechi. Knocking gloves? Please. We are not Nollywood.”

So Hayes did know. He’d been Dasuki’s dog the whole time.

“Phase two,” Dasuki continued, turning that radio voice back on me, “is recovery. We get the data. We erase the leak. We remind everyone that the Nigerian Police Force protects its own.”

He took one more step. Now he was close enough that I could smell him. Not Tom Ford. Something older. Wood. Cigars. _Power_.

He looked at the glove in my hand. The torn seam. The empty lining.

“Your sister was stupid, Miss Eze,” he said. “She thought a USB and a dead woman’s leather could take down a system.”

He leaned in. No gun. No threat. Just truth.

“But systems don’t die, Amara.”

His eyes were brown. Plain. Kind, even.

“People do.”

Tunde found his voice. “You wore my cologne.”

Dasuki looked at him. “No. Kelechi did. We needed a scent trail. Something the grieving fiancé couldn’t explain. You were perfect, Tunde. Rich. Clean. _Distracting_.” He turned back to me. “Give me the card, Amara. And maybe your friends walk out of here.”

Maybe.

_Trust no one._

I looked at A. Bello. The nurse. The recorder. “Why you?” I asked her. “Zara helped people. Why’d you flip?”

A. Bello’s eyes flicked to Dasuki. Fast. Scared. “My brother,” she said. “He’s in Kuje. Drug charge. Commissioner said he could walk. If I... monitored Zara. Reported her movements. Her contacts.”

“She trusted you,” I said.

“So did you,” A. Bello said. “Three minutes ago.”

That hurt worse than the gun.

Hayes stepped forward. “Enough. The card.”

I had two choices. Hand it over, and Dasuki buries it. Buries Zara. Again.

Or.

I ripped the glove open. The seam tore. The SD card fell.

Straight into my mouth.

I swallowed.

Hard. Plastic and metal scraping down.

Ife screamed. Tunde lunged. Hayes raised the gun.

Dasuki just laughed.

“Stupid,” he said. “Like sister, like sister. We’ll just cut it out.”

He nodded to A. Bello. She pulled a scalpel from her pocket.

It gleamed under the hospital light.

Ife grabbed the crash cart. “You touch her and I—”

The door blew open.

“Police! Drop your weapons! On the ground!”

*Sergeant Nnenna Okeke.* SCID. I’d seen her on the news. Anti-corruption. Young. Hungry. Not Dasuki’s people.

Behind her: four tactical officers. Vests. Rifles.

And one more person.

*Mrs. Abah.* My neighbor. The one who called Ife.

She was holding a phone too. Live. f*******:. 3,402 viewers.

“Hi,” Mrs. Abah said to Dasuki. “You’re under arrest.”

Dasuki didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He looked at Mrs. Abah’s phone. Then at Okeke. Then at me.

And he smiled.

“Amara,” he said. “You think this is phase two.”

He buttoned his suit jacket. Calm. Already won.

“This is phase one.”