Annah didn't dream that night.
No voices. No giggles. No closet doors creaking open.
Only the feeling of her own breath,shallow, even, too calm for someone who'd killed a man mere hours ago.
She awoke before the sun, her mind sharper than it had been in days. The burden of murder, she realized, was beginning to feel familiar. Too familiar.
At the café on Mui Road, she stirred her black coffee slowly, her journal tucked under her arm like scripture. On the corner of the page, she'd written the names: Lucy. John.Kevin.Kariuki. Stella. Wendo.
She circled Kariuki's name.
He was next.
But not for a clean kill. Not yet.
She needed to play smarter. Dig deeper.
He was careful. Powerful. Connected.
But everyone had cracks.
She opened a new notebook. No bloodstains. No history. Just clean white pages. A fresh operation.
She began:
Target 03: Dr. Peter Kariuki
Occupation: Clinical Psychologist.
Link: Assigned to Lucy post-incident. Signed off on her mental wellness three months before she went back to work.
Suspicion: Complicit. Possibly distracted. Possibly silencing something.
She had booked a follow-up session with him for that Friday.
But that was four days away. Time to use.
She took the train back to Nairobi, slipped into the city's shadows with ease. She was a ghost with a new skin,silent, watchful, disciplined. No need to run anymore.
She spent hours at the public records building, requesting files she shouldn't have access to. Patient lists. Therapy schedules. Security logs from a hospital that Lucy once worked at.
A janitor named Brian was easy to bribe. One thousand shillings and a smile bought her access to Lucy's old records. There, between evaluations and reports, was something that didn't sit right:
A note from Lucy's second-to-last session with Dr. Kariuki: "Mentioned feeling watched. Reports seeing her face in reflections, not her own. Dissociative possibilities. Refused medication."
But why wasn't this note included in the final clearance report?
The final file,neat, brief,read: "Client shows signs of improvement. No longer experiencing hallucinations. Fit to return to work."
A lie.
Annah felt her pulse rise.
She copied the notes, tucked them into her coat pocket, and disappeared from the archives before anyone could ask who she was.
Back in her apartment, she stood in front of the mirror.
Lucy's yellow dress hung behind her on a wire hanger. Untouched. Unworn.
"I'm close," she whispered.
Her own reflection blinked before she did.
She jerked back.
The mirror was still. Her face was her own.
But for a second, it wasn't.
She sat down hard on the floor, her knees trembling. "Not now," she murmured. "I need control."
She opened her journal and scribbled fast, furious:
"I am not sick. I am not broken. I am justice shaped like a girl."
Then she opened a burner phone and called Dr. Kariuki's office to confirm the session.
"Yes, Miss Mwende. Friday at 10 a.m. We look forward to seeing you."
She stared at the wall for hours after that.
Not in fear.
But in strategy.
Each confession was more than blood.
It was a step.
A ladder rising from the grave Lucy was buried in.
She wouldn't stop until she reached the light or lost herself completely in the climb.