Detective Stella Njoroge arrived at the apartment at 6:47 a.m., escorted by a barely awake constable and the building's caretaker, who kept muttering prayers under his breath.
The hallway smelled like rotting vegetables and spilled beer. Third floor. End of the corridor. Kevin Langat's door stood ajar just slightly, just enough to whisper of something unfinished.
Stella pushed it open with a gloved hand.
The room was dark. A strip of light cut through the curtains, falling across Kevin's still form. He lay on the floor beside his mattress, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath his chest, his face turned toward the wall.
There was no blood.
No signs of forced entry.
No chaos.
Just silence.
Too clean.
Stella stepped closer. Her eyes swept the room. She'd done this enough times to know when something didn't sit right and this wasn't right. Kevin Langat was 27, healthy, and known to be generally paranoid. Why would he invite someone in at midnight? Why would he be found dead on the floor, peacefully positioned like he'd simply slipped from sleep?
"Who found him?" she asked.
"Neighbor," the constable replied. "He usually knocks for a smoke around seven. Got no answer, looked through the window, saw him lying there."
She crouched near the body. His lips had a faint bluish hue. The fingers on his right hand were curled inward, like they'd tensed in the final moment. There was a tea cup beside the mattress. Half-full.
She sniffed it, frowning.
Nothing unusual.
"Any history of illness?" she asked.
"None we know of," the constable said. "He missed his shift last night. Nurse Muli reported it."
Stella stood, arms folded.
Something about Kevin's death reeked but not in the usual, obvious way. It felt quiet. Manufactured. Like someone had planned it not to scream, but to whisper.
And whisper it did.
She took photos, gathered the mug, checked the sink for prints ,found none. The place had been wiped.
Whoever had done this wasn't panicked.
They were precise.
As she walked out, she glanced one last time at Kevin's body.
He looked like a man who had seen a ghost before he died.
Dr. Peter Kariuki watched Annah Mwende from across his office, quietly tapping a pen against his notepad.
She sat straight in the leather chair, legs crossed, hands resting gently on her lap. Her hair was neatly tied back, her eyes clear, her voice steady.
But she was too calm.
He'd known her for five years, since she started mandatory therapy after Lucy's tragedy at the hospital. He had seen her sob, rage, retreat into silence. But this Annah? She was a locked door.
"How have you been sleeping?" he asked.
She tilted her head, thoughtful. "Better. Most nights I manage a full cycle. Some dreams. Nothing too disturbing."
"Dreams of Lucy?"
"Yes," she said softly.
He made a note. "Do they feel comforting? Or intrusive?"
"A bit of both."
He nodded. "Any flashes of memory? Guilt? Confusion?"
"No confusion," she said. "I know what happened. I live with it. The guilt…" Her fingers twisted slightly. "It doesn't disappear. But it's quieter now."
He studied her. "Quieter how?"
"Like the screaming's moved outside the room. Still there, but behind a wall."
His pen paused.
"And who's screaming?" he asked.
Annah looked at him, her eyes darkening for the briefest second. Then: "Everyone."
There it was.
He leaned forward slightly. "You've always carried grief as a burden to fix. Like a puzzle you could solve if you just traced the edges enough. But Annah, grief isn't a riddle."
"No," she said. "But justice is."
He blinked. "Is that what you're looking for now?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked toward the window. The trees outside were swaying. A crow shrieked on the sill.
"Kevin Langat is dead," she said quietly.
Dr. Kariuki's brow lifted. "I hadn't heard."
"He worked with Lucy."
"I know."
"Do you think he deserved it?"
He hesitated. "Annah, that's not a therapeutic question. And I think you already know how I'd answer."
"I wanted to know if you'd lie to me."
He set the notepad down. "Do you think I lie to you?"
"I think everyone lies eventually."
They sat in silence for a while.
Then she stood.
"I think I'm done for today."
"Annah..."
"I'm fine," she said with a tight smile. "Truly."
But her eyes were glassy.
And as she walked out of his office, Dr. Kariuki exhaled and circled one word on his page:
Detached.
Stella leaned on her desk, arms crossed, her laptop glowing with Kevin Langat's personnel file.
Clean record.
Quiet worker.
No known enemies.
No debts.
But then ,his sudden disappearance from Lucy Mumo's incident report. No clear alibi. And now, no pulse.
She clicked over to the autopsy requisition she'd filed an hour earlier. Toxicology was pending. But she had a hunch about paralysis. About poison. Something controlled.
Someone had killed him without leaving a mark.
She pulled up Lucy Mumo's case file again.
Lucy had worked with Kevin. Annah was her sister. Annah had been the last known person to report Lucy's growing fear at the hospital.
And Annah had grown increasingly unstable since.
Or maybe… focused.
Stella leaned back.
She wasn't ready to act on suspicion. Not yet. But the pieces weren't scattered anymore,they were circling.
She needed to talk to Annah.
Soon.
Annah stood at the edge of the hallway, staring at a janitor pushing a mop along the white-tiled floor of a public clinic.
He wasn't Wendo.
But he moved like him.
Too slow. Too smooth.
She felt her jaw tighten.
The smell of detergent turned her stomach.
Her heart picked up pace.
She turned away and leaned against the wall, gripping the strap of her bag so tightly her fingers ached.
She hadn't thought about Wendo in days. Hadn't wanted to.
But when she heard the mop squeak… something came back.
Lucy whispering, "Wendo sees everything. Even when you think he's not looking."
She closed her eyes.
Not yet.
But soon.
That night, Annah sat on her balcony. The wind brushed against her arms. She sipped lukewarm coffee and stared at the stars.
Kevin was gone.
One name crossed off.
But the silence hadn't lifted.
Her mind wandered back to Stella ,sharp-eyed and stubborn. She'd come knocking eventually. But Annah had time. Enough to be careful.
Enough to be ready.
Because Wendo was still out there.
Still watching.
Still smiling.
And she would not let him reach another Lucy.
No matter what it cost.