The bodyguard lie

When death came early

Specicle and her husband, Edward, were on the road.

It was supposed to be nothing. Just a drive back from Sabie after dinner with his old university friends. He’d had two whiskies. She’d had one glass of red and her hand on his thigh the whole way home, because Edward was a white guy who blushed when she touched him in public, and she loved watching it.

The R40 was empty. Bushveld black on both sides. The only light came from their headlights and the diamond on her finger, catching every time he turned the wheel.

He was telling her about the house. “We’ll repaint the bedroom,” he said. “Something darker. Like your eyes.”

Specicle laughed. “You hate my taste, Edward.”

“I hate everything that isn’t you,” he said, and looked at her instead of the road.

That’s when it happened.

Not a car. Not a truck. The road was empty. One second his eyes were on her, warm and stupidly in love. The next, the steering wheel jerked like something had grabbed it. The car swerved.

Specicle screamed his name.

Edward didn’t answer. His hands weren’t even on the wheel anymore. They were clawing at his throat like he couldn’t breathe, like the air had turned to glass in his lungs. His face went purple under the dashboard lights.

The car hit the barrier.

Metal screamed. Glass became rain. The world flipped.

When it stopped, Specicle was hanging upside down, the seatbelt cutting into her ribs. The airbag had her in a chokehold. She could smell petrol and the copper of blood. Not hers.

Edward’s.

She fumbled for the buckle. Fell onto the roof of the car. Crawled to him.

His eyes were open. Still blue. Still his. But there was nothing behind them. His lips were parted like he’d been about to say her name.

No blood on the outside. No wound she could press her hands to. He was just... gone. Like something reached into his chest and switched him off.

The cops called it a heart attack. At 34. While driving. On an empty road.

Specicle called it a lie.

Three weeks later, the house was too big. The bed was too cold. The lawyers said she inherited everything - the house, the accounts, the enemies Edward never told her about.

She had no kids. No family left in Bushbuckridge that she spoke to. Just a dead husband, a house that echoed, and envelopes sliding under her door at 3AM. No stamps. No fingerprints. Just photographs.

Of her. Sleeping.

The first time it happened, she called the police. They said grieving widows imagine things.

The second time, the photo was from _inside_ the house.

The third time, it came with a note: _You’re not safe alone._

That’s when the buzzer rang.

Specicle opened the door with Edward’s old pistol shaking in her hand.

A man stood there. Black suit. Black skin. Eyes like he’d already buried someone today. He didn’t flinch at the gun.

“Mrs. Van der Merwe,” he said. Voice low. Like gravel and secrets. “My name is...”

She didn’t hear the rest. Because for one hysterical second, she saw Edward in the way this man stood. Same wide shoulders. Same way of taking up a doorway like he could stop death from getting in.

Then she saw the scar on his neck. Jagged. Like someone had tried to cut his throat and failed.

He wasn’t Edward.

He was the opposite of Edward.

“I didn’t hire a bodyguard,” Specicle said, but her voice cracked.

“No,” he said. “Edward did. Two days before he died.”

A single tear fell. Hot. It hit the pistol and sizzled. Or maybe that was just her.