ASHES OF TRUTH

The Red Cord

Morning came softly, like a lie.

Lagos sunlight filtered through the curtains, golden and indifferent, as if the night before had never happened. Thomas was already awake, in the kitchen, humming under his breath. The smell of frying plantain drifted through the hallway, warm and familiar.

For a fleeting moment, I wanted to believe everything was normal ,that the red cord on his table, the crime scene photos, the words Project Cleanse had been a dream. But when I looked down at my fingers, I realized they were trembling.

I forced myself to breathe, to smile, to become the Ada he knew, wife, mother, believer in better things.

“You’re up early,” he said as I entered the kitchen.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You work too hard,” he teased. “Come, eat something.”

He set a plate before me, golden plantain, eggs, pepper sauce. The simple kind of breakfast that had carried us through our marriage. The kind that used to taste like love.

But now, everything tasted of fear.

That day, I pretended to go to the newsroom, but instead, I drove to Inspector Sade’s flat in Yaba. She lived above a noisy mechanic’s workshop, the kind that made conversation feel like a fight with engines.

When she opened the door, she was still in her tank top, a towel around her neck.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“Maybe I have.”

I told her everything, the red cord, the laptop, the photos, Project Cleanse. Her expression hardened with every word.

“You’re saying your husband has police files on his system?”

“Yes. Files only someone inside the investigation would have.”

“Ada, that’s serious. You can’t just… sit on this.”

“I’m not accusing him,” I said quickly. “I just, I need to be sure.”

She leaned back, studying me. “You love him.”

I didn’t answer.

“Fine,” she said. “Give me time. I’ll check his background, see if there’s anything unusual financial records, movement, calls. But, Ada…” She hesitated. “If this turns out bad, you’ll have to choose which side you’re on.”

I already knew that. It haunted me every time Thomas smiled.

That evening, I came home to find him helping Chika with homework. Muna was drawing on the floor a stick figure family holding hands beneath a bright sun. Thomas looked up and smiled.

“How was work?”

“Busy,” I lied. “You?”

“Same old.” He pointed at the generator outside. “Finally got it running smooth.”

I watched him with a strange ache in my chest. How could a man who laughed with his children, who cooked breakfast, who kissed me goodnight how could that man also be capable of… that?

When the kids went to bed, he poured two glasses of wine.

“You’ve been distant lately,” he said, eyes on me. “Are you hiding something?”

The irony almost made me choke.

“Just tired.”

“From the murders?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, then reached across the table and took my hand. His touch was warm, his thumb tracing lazy circles over my wrist.

“You can’t save everyone, Ada.”

“I have to try.”

“That’s what I love about you.”

His words sank deep, love and danger tangled like vines.

Later that night, when he was asleep, I sneaked back into his “lab.” I’d memorized the laptop’s password from the reflection on his glasses the previous night.

It was muna0620 our daughter’s name and birthdate.

My chest tightened.

The screen came alive, and I scrolled through the folders: PROJECT CLEANSE, ARCHIVE, LOGS, PATTERNS.

Inside LOGS, I found entries time stamped, detailed.

Subject 3, located at Elegushi, observed for seven days.

Subject 3 cleansed on 10/06. Process successful.

Cleaned. Cleansed. The same word from the project title.

There were coordinates attached, matching the places where bodies had been found.

I opened one labeled Subject 4 review. The photo made my stomach twist the same girl from the file, before and after. He had written notes about her habits, her route, even her favorite café.

My breath caught when I saw the date. The night he told me he was “working late on the generator.”

Tears blurred the screen. My hands shook as I tried to copy the files onto a flash drive. Then a creak.

The door.

Thomas’s shadow stretched across the floor.

“Ada?”

I slammed the laptop shut. “You scared me!”

He smiled, half-asleep. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d write.”

He stepped closer, his hand brushing my shoulder. His eyes lingered on the desk.

“You opened my laptop?”

My pulse jumped. “I just needed to check the time.”

For a long moment, he studied me. Then he smiled again, the warmth returning like nothing had happened.

“You journalists and your curiosity,” he said softly. “Just… don’t go snooping too deep, love. Some things you can’t unsee.”

When he left, I stood frozen for a full minute before my knees gave out. I was shaking — from fear, from guilt, from the unbearable truth pressing against my ribs.

Two days later, Sade called.

“We need to talk. Now.”

We met in her car, parked near the lagoon, engine idling.

“I checked Thomas’s background,” she said, handing me a folder. “He’s clean no criminal record, no suspicious accounts. But there’s something else.”

She flipped the file open. Inside were printed phone logs hundreds of calls, all to one number labeled UNKNOWN.

“The same number showed up in the vicinity of every murder. Burner phone. Whoever owns it, he’s meticulous.”

“You think it’s him?”

Sade looked at me. “I think you should leave that house. For your safety, and your kids’.”

Leave Thomas? The thought felt like tearing out my own heart.

“If I leave now,” I said, “he’ll know. And I’ll never find out the truth.”

She sighed. “You’re playing with fire, Ada.”

I looked out at the water gray and restless. “Maybe fire’s what I need to see the truth.”

That night, I returned home late. Thomas was waiting on the balcony, smoking — something he rarely did.

“You’ve been out a lot,” he said, not looking at me. “With Sade?”

My chest tightened. “You know her?”

“Everyone in Lagos knows someone who knows her,” he said calmly. “She’s police. And you’re… what? Investigating me now?”

The air went cold.

“Thomas”

“Because if you are,” he said, turning toward me, “maybe you should ask why I’m doing all this.”

My heart stopped. “Doing what?”

He took a slow drag, exhaled smoke into the night.

“This city is sick, Ada. You write about it every day corruption, decay, girls selling themselves for crumbs. I’m just… cleaning the rot.”

My breath caught. “You’re killing them?”

He smiled faintly. “I’m saving them. Don’t you see? They were lost. I gave them peace.”

My knees weakened. “Thomas… oh God.”

He reached for me gently, lovingly. “You always said you wanted to make a change. So do I. We’re not so different.”

“You’re insane,” I whispered.

He looked almost hurt. “Maybe. But I’ve never lied to you about love.”

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of us spoke. The rain began again, soft at first, then heavy, washing over the city.

“You won’t tell anyone,” he said quietly. “You can’t.”

“Why?” I whispered.

He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Because you love me.”

He walked past me, into the house, leaving me trembling in the storm.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat by the children’s door, listening to their steady breathing, wondering what kind of monster I had married, and how much of me still loved him.

The flash drive with his files was hidden under my pillow. Tomorrow, I would take it to Sade. Tomorrow, I would end this.

But just before dawn, I woke to the sound of footsteps, heavy, deliberate.

Thomas stood at the doorway, holding my phone.

“You were going to meet her, weren’t you?”

The flash drive burned in my hand.

“Thomas, please”

He smiled again, slow and sorrowful. “You shouldn’t have gone snooping, Ada.”

The rain outside grew louder, drowning my heartbeat.

And then he stepped closer, eyes cold, voice gentle as ever.

“Now, I have to decide what to do with you.”