0603
605 Words
Lora didn’t go to the police.
She didn’t go home.
She went to the bank.
Amira George’s old branch. Downtown Abuja.
The same bank Auntie Ngozi worked at for 20 years.
The building looked smaller than she remembered.
She walked in with the envelope in her bag and her hoodie pulled low.
Security guard nodded. “Afternoon, ma.”
She didn’t answer.
4th floor. Records and archives.
A plaque still said: *A. GEORGE - SENIOR ACCOUNT OFFICER*
They never took her mom’s name down.
The office was locked.
A cleaner was mopping the hall. “You looking for someone?”
“My mom used to work here,” Lora said. “I was told there’s a storage room. With her things.”
The woman shrugged. “Room 4B. But it’s sealed. Manager’s orders. That James man.”
Lora’s stomach dropped. “Sealed how?”
“Padlock. And a code thing on the door.” She pointed. “Been like that since 2014.”
Room 4B.
Old metal door. Dusty.
And a digital keypad.
0603.
Lora’s fingers shook as she typed it.
*6 - 0 - 3*
Her mom’s birthday. June 3rd. Lora’s.
_Beep._
_Click._
The lock released.
Inside: boxes. Files. A framed photo of her and Amira at the beach.
And in the corner, a small wall safe. Same keypad.
She typed 0603 again.
The safe door opened with a soft hiss.
Inside:
1. A USB drive. Labeled _“For Lora - 21st”_ in Amira’s handwriting.
2. Another document. *AMENDED WILL - AMIRA GEORGE*
*DATE: OCTOBER 30, 2014*
*NEW TRUSTEE: NGOZI EZE*
*NOTE: IF JAMES DANIELS INTERFERES, CONTACT POLICE IMMEDIATELY*
October 30, 2014.
Two days before the trust fund was closed.
Two days before Amira’s car accident.
Lora’s vision blurred.
Her mom knew. She changed it. She tried to protect her.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Unknown number.
_We know you’re in the bank, Lora. Come out with the envelope. Now._
She looked at the USB. At the amended will.
Evidence. Proof that James forged the closure.
Footsteps in the hall. Heavy. Two sets.
Coming closer.
She shoved the USB and the will into her bra. Kept the empty envelope in her bag.
Walked out.
Two men in black suits stood by the elevator. Same men from the mosque.
“Ms. George,” the taller one said. “Mr. Daniels would like his property back.”
Lora held up the empty envelope. “This? It’s just old bank statements.”
“Give it.”
He reached for her bag.
Lora dropped it. Papers scattered.
While he bent to grab them, she bolted.
Down the stairs. 4 flights. Heart pounding.
She burst out the back exit into the alley.
A car screeched to a stop in front of her.
Door opened.
Auntie Ngozi.
“Get in! Now!”
Lora dove into the passenger seat.
Auntie floored it.
In the rearview: the two men running out, yelling.
Auntie was breathing hard. “Are you okay? What did you find?”
Lora pulled out the USB and the will.
“He didn’t just steal the money,” Lora said. “He killed her to do it.”
Auntie slammed the brakes.
On her phone, a news alert popped up.
*BREAKING: BODY FOUND IN GWAGWALADA DUMP SITE. FEMALE, 50S. ID PENDING.*
The photo was blurry. But the blue hijab was clear.
Auntie’s hand went to her mouth.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
Lora stared at the screen.
At the USB in her hand.
At the text that buzzed through:
_You should’ve come home, Lora. Now you have no one left._
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