ASHES OF TRUTH

The rain had not stopped for three days. Lagos rain the kind that eats at the streets, gurgles in the gutters, and leaves the air smelling of wet dust and exhaust. I watched it through my office window at The Daily Light, coffee cooling beside my notebook, headlines spilling across the page: “ANOTHER GIRL FOUND DEAD IN AJAH POLICE BAFFLED.” I should have been numb by now. It was the fourth murder in two months all young women, all found near water, their wrists bound with a red cord. Each time, the police called it “ritualistic.” Each time, the city sighed, shook its head, and moved on. But I couldn’t. My name is Ada Eze, thirty-two, journalist, mother of two, wife of one and still foolish enough to believe I could change the world with words. The newsroom hummed around me printers spitting out inked sheets, voices arguing over politics and fuel subsidy. My editor, Mr. Akin, leaned over my desk, his tie soaked from the downpour. “You want this case, don’t you?” he asked, tapping the headline. I looked up. “I’ve been following it since the first body, sir.” He sighed. “You’re too close to these stories, Ada. You carry them home. But fine — write it. Full feature. Front page if it’s good enough.” He left before I could thank him. I didn’t see the shadow that decision would cast. I drove home through the heavy rain that evening, wipers thrashing, radio humming lowlife gossip about politicians. The children were asleep when I got back, Chika, six, and little Muna, four curled up in their small room like twin commas in a half-finished story. Thomas was in the kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled up, stirring something on the stove. The smell of pepper soup filled the air, strong and warm, chasing the dampness from my bones. “You’re late,” he said, smiling without turning. “Deadlines again?” “Murder again,” I replied, kicking off my shoes. “They found another body in Ajah.” He turned then that same gentle face I fell for ten years ago at a press conference. His eyes were soft but unreadable. “This city ” he murmured. “It eats its own.” He came close, brushed a damp strand from my face. “You should stop covering these things, Ada. You carry too much pain.” “If I stop, who tells their stories?” I asked. He smiled faintly, that look he gave when he thought I was being too idealistic. Then he kissed me slow, deliberate, familiar. The kiss that always made me forget where the day had been cruel. The rain beat harder outside, and for a while, it was only us two weary souls finding warmth in a Lagos storm. Later, in bed, I lay awake while Thomas slept beside me. His breathing was steady, deep. I traced the outline of his hand on the sheet. He had strong fingers the kind that built things. Once, he’d worked at a tech firm, writing code for banking systems. But when they downsized, he’d been “between jobs.” That was two years ago. Since then, he’d become quieter, spending long nights in the small room he called his “lab,” tinkering with electronics, fixing neighbors’ laptops. He said he was building a startup. I wanted to believe him. The next morning, I met Inspector Sade, the police contact I’d cultivated over the years. She was tough, sharp-tongued, always with a stick of gum in her mouth. “We found her in an abandoned lot behind a petrol station,” she said, flipping open a file. “Same pattern. Rope, red cord, wrists bound. Eyes closed. Body washed.” “Washed?” I repeated. Sade nodded grimly. “Like someone bathed her before dumping her.” The rain drummed on the police station’s tin roof. I stared at the photos the girl couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her skin was pale under the harsh light, her hair slicked back. The red cord around her wrist glistened like blood. “We ran the DNA,” Sade said. “Nothing in the system. The killer’s careful.” I scribbled in my notebook, my journalist’s instincts fighting with the human ache inside me. “Any connection between the victims?” “None. Different neighborhoods, different backgrounds. But all young, all single, all found near water.” I left with the photos tucked into my folder, the image of that lifeless face carved into my mind. At home that evening, Thomas was fixing the generator again. He always said he liked the sound of machines said it calmed him. The children were chasing each other through the sitting room, giggling. “You look tired,” he said when I walked in. “You should see the things I’ve seen today,” I muttered, hanging my wet jacket. He came to me, took the folder from my hand, and set it aside. “Forget work. Come here.” His hands found my waist, his lips my neck. The kids were laughing in the next room, the smell of rain wafted through the open window, and somehow the world didn’t feel as broken. For a moment, I let myself melt into him the man who had held my hand through childbirth, who made me believe in forever. But when his hand brushed my wrist, I flinched. He froze. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I lied. “Just cold.” He smiled again, but something flickered behind his eyes a shadow I couldn’t name. The days blurred into routine newsroom deadlines, school drop-offs, late-night dinners. Yet the murders continued. Five victims now. All young. All bound with red cord. My editor grew restless. “You’re missing the bigger picture, Ada,” he said. “What drives a man to kill like that? Find his reason.” I started digging deeper interviewing families, tracing locations, connecting dots that shouldn’t have connected. Each body had been found within two kilometers of where Thomas once worked on computer network installations. Coincidence, I told myself. Lagos was big but small that way. Still, I started noticing small things red string in Thomas’s toolbox, faint scratches on his forearm, the way he sometimes disappeared at night, saying he needed “fresh air.” One evening, I followed him. He left the house around 9:00 PM, hood up, walking briskly toward the main road. The rain had just started again, soft and persistent. I kept my distance, heart hammering. He stopped by an abandoned kiosk, pulled out his phone, and seemed to text someone. Then he just… stood there. Waiting. After ten minutes, he turned and walked back home. When I asked where he’d gone, he smiled. “Just needed to think,” he said. “You worry too much, Ada.” The next morning, I found an anonymous envelope on my office desk. No name, just my initials [A.E] Inside were three photographs. One showed a body, the last victim. The second showed the same woman alive, smiling, outside a café. The third showed, Thomas. In the background. Sitting at another table. My hands went cold. The paper trembled between my fingers. I called Sade immediately. “I need to see you. It’s urgent.” “What happened?” “Just come, please. Not at the station. Too many eyes.” We met at a small buka near the marina, the smell of fried plantain heavy in the air. I showed her the photos. She frowned, chewing slowly. “Where did you get these?” “I don’t know. They were just there this morning.” “And your husband…?” “It could be coincidence,” I said quickly. “Maybe he was just there that day” Sade’s eyes narrowed. “Ada, be careful. You don’t want to be part of your own story.” I went home that night with the photographs hidden under my blouse, my mind a storm. Thomas greeted me at the door, smiling, holding a glass of red wine. “You’re shaking,” he said. “What’s wrong?” “Just… deadlines,” I said, forcing a smile. He touched my face, studied me. “You’ve been distant lately. Are we okay?” I looked at him, really looked. The man I loved. The father of my children. The gentle smile that could calm any storm. “We’re okay,” I whispered. But my heart knew we weren’t. That night, the rain returned relentless, whispering against the windows. I couldn’t sleep. Thomas lay beside me, his arm draped across my waist. His breathing was deep, peaceful. In the silence, I heard the faint sound of something a drip, then a thud coming from the small room he called his “lab.” I slipped out of bed, bare feet on cold tiles, the corridor dim. The door to the lab was slightly ajar. Inside, the glow of a laptop screen lit the dark. On the table: wires, tools, a roll of red cord. My breath caught. Then I saw it a folder open on his screen. Photos. Crime scene photos. The same ones from the police files. And at the bottom of the screen, a file name blinked: “PROJECT CLEANSE.” A chill spread through me. I turned and found Thomas standing in the doorway, watching me. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly. The light caught his eyes, calm, unreadable, dangerous. I forced a smile. “I… I was just looking for painkillers.” He nodded slowly, stepped closer, and brushed a lock of hair from my face. His touch was gentle. Too gentle. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, voice low. “You might see things you don’t understand.” “Then explain them,” I whispered. He leaned closer, kissed my forehead. “In time,” he murmured. “When the city is clean.” The rain outside grew louder, drowning the silence between us. I stared at him, heart pounding, realization clawing at the edges of my mind. Could it be him? He smiled again that same loving, terrifying smile. And in that moment, I knew my story had just begun.