“I called Dr. Musa,” she said. “Remember him? The elderly doctor who treated your father years ago. The one your mother never liked because he couldn’t be bought.”
Jerry nodded slowly. Dr. Musa had been an old stubborn man with honest eyes.
“He believed me,” Mirabel continued. “He helped me fake symptoms. Slow breathing. Weak pulse. Enough to convince your mother’s doctor that the poison worked.”
Jerry sat back down as if his legs had suddenly forgotten how to hold him.
“My God,” he breathed.
“They brought my body to the morgue,” Mirabel said quietly. “But before midnight, Dr. Musa came secretly and moved me out.”
Jerry stared at her.
“For one week,” she said, “I have been hiding, changing locations, avoiding anyone connected to your family. I didn’t know who else was involved.”
Jerry’s jaw tightened. The weight of betrayal settled on him in layers: anger, grief, and something worse.
Betrayal from strangers hurts.
Betrayal from family changes something permanent inside you.
“And you came to the market today?” he asked, voice softer now.
Mirabel nodded faintly. “I ran out of money. I needed food. I thought maybe I could stay hidden a little longer.”
Jerry let out a broken laugh.
“One week,” he murmured. “I mourned you for one week.”
Mirabel reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” Jerry shook his head quickly. “No. You survived. That’s what matters.”
He pulled her into an embrace, tight and protective. In that moment, he didn’t care about cameras, gossip, scandal. He cared about warmth and breathing and the fact that his wife’s heartbeat was real under his palm.
When he pulled back, his eyes were wet, but his expression had changed. The grieving husband was still there, but the CEO had stepped forward, the man who made billion-naira decisions without trembling.
“We’re going to the police,” he said.
Mirabel nodded immediately. “I was waiting for you to say that.”
Jerry dialed a number.
“Commissioner Bello,” he said when the call connected. “I need you immediately. It’s urgent and sensitive.”
He paused, then added quietly, “Yes. Attempted murder.”
Mirabel watched him, and for the first time since Oyingbo, she looked… not safe, exactly. But less hunted.
Still, deep inside Jerry, another fear grew teeth.
If his mother had gone this far, what else had she prepared?
Thirty minutes later, two unmarked police vehicles rolled into the garden. Commissioner Bello stepped out with the serious face of a man who had seen too much to be surprised easily.
Jerry approached him.
“Mr. Okafor,” Bello said. “You sounded disturbed.”
Jerry stepped aside.
Mirabel stepped into the light.
The commissioner froze. His eyes widened.
“Madam Mirabel?”
Jerry handed him the small phone.
“Listen.”
Bello played the recording. His jaw hardened by degrees, like stone setting.
When it ended, he looked up.
“This is serious evidence,” he said.
“I want it handled legally,” Jerry replied. “No scandal tricks. No cover-ups.”
Bello nodded. “We move now.”
Mirabel’s breathing quickened. Jerry squeezed her hand once.
As they walked toward the vehicles, Jerry’s phone buzzed again. A message from Madam Hannah.
My son, come home tonight. We need to talk about your future.
Jerry stared at the message.
His expression went dark.
“Yes,” he whispered. “We will talk.”
The convoy started moving.
Destination: the Okafor mansion, where a mother waited behind elegant walls, not knowing her “dead” daughter-in-law was coming back with the law.
Or perhaps…
Knowing.
Because when the gates opened, they opened too slowly.
Jerry noticed the hesitation. The security guard’s eyes flicked from Jerry’s SUV to the police vehicles, and fear flashed across his face like a warning.
Jerry’s jaw tightened.
She already knows.
The mansion stood tall under the evening sky, white walls glowing under soft lights, fountains flowing like innocence, palm trees swaying as if nothing evil had ever been planned here.
Home.
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