Jerry went still.
His heartbeat seemed to pause, then pound harder as if trying to escape.
“My mother?” he repeated, roughly. “Madam Hannah?”
Mirabel nodded.
“She came when you traveled,” Mirabel said, voice low and shaky. “She didn’t greet me like a normal person. She walked into the house like she owned my breath.”
Jerry blinked hard, memories rushing in: his mother in public, elegant and generous, smiling for cameras at charity events, calling Mirabel “my daughter,” patting her hand like the world was watching.
“My mother said she would kill you,” he said, as if repeating it might make it less real.
“She called me barren,” Mirabel whispered, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “She said I’m wasting your time. She said you’re her only child and I’m blocking her from holding her grandchildren.”
Jerry swallowed. His lips trembled.
Mirabel exhaled sharply, still inside that memory like a room she couldn’t exit.
“That night I wasn’t feeling fine. I told her I couldn’t cook. I was dizzy. My stomach was turning.” She looked away, then back, eyes darting as if danger could still enter the garden. “She suddenly became nice.”
Jerry’s brows pulled together.
“She came into my room,” Mirabel continued. “Touched my forehead like a caring mother. She said, ‘Lie down. I will make you jollof rice.’”
Jerry’s throat tightened.
“But before I ate, I heard her outside my door on the phone.” Mirabel’s fingers gripped her knees until her knuckles whitened. “She said she had poisoned the food.”
Jerry’s stomach turned.
“She said, ‘Even if it doesn’t work, I already paid boys to finish the job.’”
“No,” Jerry whispered. “No, no.”
“My love,” Mirabel said, and her voice steadied. “I know you want to defend her. That’s your mother.”
Jerry’s jaw clenched, shame mixing with disbelief.
Mirabel reached into a small bag she’d brought from the market and pulled out an old phone, small and plain, the kind people used when they didn’t want to be traced.
Jerry stared at it.
“What is that?”
“It’s the reason I’m alive,” she whispered.
Then she looked him straight in the eyes and said words that turned his blood cold.
“I recorded her.”
Jerry’s breath stopped.
Mirabel held the phone tightly like it was both weapon and shield.
“I recorded the call,” she repeated, voice shaking. “And I recorded something else too.”
Jerry leaned forward without realizing, tension gathering in his shoulders like armor.
“What else?”
“The doctor,” Mirabel whispered.
Jerry’s eyes widened. “The family doctor?”
“He helped her.”
The world tilted.
Jerry’s ears rang. His mouth went dry.
Mirabel swallowed hard.
“Jerry,” she said softly but sharply enough to cut. “Your mother didn’t just try to kill me. She planned how to bury me while I was still breathing.”
Jerry’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“Play it,” he whispered.
Mirabel nodded, thumb moving toward the audio button.
And at that exact moment, Jerry’s phone began to ring in his pocket.
The caller ID flashed like a warning light.
MADAM HANNAH.
Mirabel’s grip tightened on his wrist.
“Don’t answer,” she whispered urgently.
Jerry stared at the vibrating phone. His mother rarely called twice. She believed people should always be available for her.
The phone kept ringing.
Jerry’s breathing slowed, then he pressed decline.
Silence rushed back in.
Mirabel exhaled shakily.
Jerry turned fully toward her.
“Play it,” he said again.
Mirabel pressed play.
At first, static hissed, thin and ghostly. Then a familiar voice emerged, calm and controlled, a voice Jerry had trusted since childhood.
“Doctor, I am telling you, it must be done quietly.”
Jerry’s heart skipped.
His mother’s private voice. Not the public charity voice. The cold one.
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