ASHES OF AUGUST

Chapter Eleven: Allies and Betrayals

The hospital air was heavy with antiseptic and the slow beep of machines. Adrian had grown accustomed to its rhythms—the shuffle of nurses, the clink of IV bottles, the sterile hum that filled the silence between his words and Elena’s stillness.

But that night, when he returned from a brief walk to clear his head, there was someone sitting in the chair by her bed.

A woman.

She was tall, with bronze skin and a tumble of black curls that caught the fluorescent light. Her eyes, almond-shaped and sharp, studied Elena’s unconscious face with a familiarity that made Adrian’s chest tighten. She didn’t look startled when he entered. She looked as if she had been waiting.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Adrian said, his voice harsher than he intended. “This is private.”

The woman turned to him. Her gaze was piercing, calm. “She would have wanted me here. We were sisters, once.”

Adrian froze. “Who are you?”

“Leilani.” The name slid from her lips with quiet finality, as though it explained everything. But it explained nothing.

Adrian’s pulse hammered. “Sisters? Elena has no sisters.”

Leilani gave a faint smile, more sorrow than warmth. “Not by blood. By fire. By the things we survived together.”

She rose gracefully from the chair, her movements too fluid, too confident. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Elena’s forehead. The tenderness was real—Adrian could see it—but beneath it was something else. Something heavy, unspoken.

“You knew her in Samoa,” Adrian said slowly.

Leilani’s eyes flicked back to his. “Yes.”

“And you waited until now—until she’s lying in a hospital bed—to appear?”

“I waited until it was safe.”

Adrian let out a bitter laugh. “Safe? Look around you. She’s barely alive. Someone tried to kill her. Tell me, Leilani—what the hell did Elena get herself into?”

Leilani studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed, pulling a small silver lighter from her pocket. She flicked it open and closed, the metallic snap echoing in the quiet room.

“She betrayed people. Dangerous people. The kind who don’t forget. The kind who don’t forgive.”

Adrian’s throat tightened. “You’re saying she deserves this?”

Leilani’s gaze softened, unexpectedly. “No. I’m saying it was inevitable. You can run from ghosts, but eventually, they find your trail.”

He wanted to scream at her. Demand the truth. But her calmness disarmed him. And worse—he felt the faintest flicker of trust.

Still, doubt lingered.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

Leilani’s lips curved faintly. “The truth always comes at a price. The question is—are you ready to pay it?”

Inspector Mwangi didn’t like her from the start.

When Adrian mentioned Leilani the next morning, Mwangi’s eyes narrowed. “A woman shows up out of nowhere, claiming to know Elena, spinning tales of betrayal? That’s not an ally. That’s a vulture circling the body.”

“She knew her in Samoa,” Adrian insisted. “She called her Helena. She said—”

“Exactly,” Mwangi cut him off. “She knows too much. If she was close to Elena, she’s part of that world. Maybe she’s the reason your fiancée’s in that bed.”

Adrian bristled. “And maybe she’s the only one willing to tell me the truth.”

Mwangi leaned in, voice low and sharp. “I’ve seen it before. Men blinded by love, trusting anyone who promises answers. Don’t make her your compass. You’ll find yourself led straight into the fire.”

Adrian clenched his fists. But Mwangi’s words couldn’t silence the image of Leilani’s hand brushing Elena’s hair, the tenderness in her eyes. That hadn’t been fake. It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Leilani met him again that evening. This time at a café on Kenyatta Avenue, where the city’s noise swallowed their conversation.

Adrian sat across from her, fingers tight around his coffee cup. “Tell me everything. No riddles. No games.”

Leilani lit a cigarette despite the waiter’s protests. Smoke curled between them, veiling her expression.

“She wasn’t just part of the ring,” Leilani said finally. “She was its heart. Makoa trusted her more than anyone. She ran money, weapons, sometimes even people. She kept the books. She knew the routes. Without her, the ring would have collapsed.”

Adrian’s stomach lurched. “You’re lying.”

Leilani’s gaze didn’t waver. “I wish I was.”

He shook his head violently. “Elena would never—”

“She wasn’t Elena then,” Leilani interrupted, her voice sharp. “She was Helena Vasquez. And she was ruthless when she had to be. Don’t let that angelic face fool you. She’s got blood on her hands.”

Adrian felt the world tilt. But before he could reply, Leilani leaned forward, her eyes dark.

“She betrayed us. Not just Makoa. All of us. She fed information to the police. One night, the docks went up in flames. People died. Friends died. And she vanished.”

Adrian’s chest constricted. “No…”

“She ran to Vietnam. Found you. Tried to start fresh.” Leilani’s voice softened now. “Maybe she did love you. Maybe she wanted to forget. But people like us? We don’t get to forget.”

Adrian stared at her, throat raw. “So what do you want? Revenge?”

Leilani shook her head. “Revenge is already in motion. I came to warn you. If they didn’t kill her in that store, they’ll try again. And you—” she jabbed a finger at him—“you’re next. Because love makes you a liability.”

Her words hung between them, heavy as smoke.

Adrian wanted to storm out, to call her a liar, a manipulator. But another part of him—dark, gnawing—knew she might be telling the truth.

That night, he returned to the hospital more broken than before. He sat by Elena’s bed, clutching her hand.

“Did you?” he whispered. “Did you betray them? Did you burn those docks? Did you leave people to die?”

Her eyelids fluttered, as if she heard him. He leaned closer, desperate for a word, a breath, a sign.

Nothing.

Tears burned his eyes. “I don’t care what you did. I don’t care who you were. I just need you to wake up. Please.”

But in the silence, Leilani’s voice echoed: She’s got blood on her hands.

Mwangi had her followed.

Two officers tailed Leilani through the city, watching her slip between markets and alleyways like she’d lived here for years. She never stayed long in one place. She spoke to no one. She left no trail.

Until one night, she disappeared into a warehouse near the railway yard.

The officers waited outside for hours, but she never came back out.

When they entered, the warehouse was empty. Only a cigarette butt, still warm, smoldered on the concrete.

Mwangi cursed. She was playing them.

Back in his apartment, Adrian couldn’t sleep. The photograph of Elena and Makoa lay on the table beside him. Next to it, Leilani’s cigarette lighter, which she had left behind at the café, glinted in the dim light.

Two tokens. Two stories. Both impossible. Both true.

Adrian pressed his palms into his eyes, his mind unraveling. Had he ever truly known her? Or had he been in love with a mask, blind to the blood that clung to her past?

And worse: could he trust the woman who claimed to hold the truth—or was she leading him into betrayal of his own?

The city outside whispered with the hum of engines, the bark of stray dogs, the distant sirens of a restless night.

Adrian sat alone, torn between love and suspicion, trust and fear, while somewhere in Nairobi’s shadows, Leilani lit another cigarette and watched the skyline, her expression unreadable.

Whether ally or traitor, she had entered his life like a blade—and nothing would ever be the same.

End of Chapter Eleven.