The night arrived heavier than the last.
Not with noise.
Not with confrontation.
But with something quieter… something that pressed against Zara’s chest like an unanswered question she could no longer ignore.
She stood alone in the west wing corridor, the dim lights casting long shadows along the walls. The house was asleep—or pretending to be—but Zara had come to understand that nothing in the Mwakazi mansion truly rested.
Not secrets.
Not intentions.
Not people.
Her steps were slow, deliberate, her mind tracing the fragments she had gathered piece by piece.
The whispers.
The tension.
The conversation she overheard.
We should’ve finished it back then.
The words echoed again, louder now, clearer.
More dangerous.
Zara’s jaw tightened.
This was no longer suspicion.
No longer theory.
It was truth.
Ethan’s accident…
Had been planned.
She reached the study door.
Paused.
Then pushed it open.
The room was empty.
But not untouched.
Papers lay scattered across the desk, not carelessly, but in a way that suggested interruption. A file sat open, its contents partially exposed.
Zara stepped inside, her pulse steady, her thoughts sharper than ever.
She didn’t hesitate.
Her fingers moved to the file.
Opened it.
Medical reports.
Dates.
Observations.
Her eyes scanned quickly, absorbing everything.
Severe spinal trauma… delayed treatment… complications due to interference…
Her breath slowed.
Her focus narrowed.
This wasn’t just an accident report.
It was a timeline.
And something about it didn’t add up.
The initial injury was serious—but not irreversible.
Not immediately.
The damage had worsened later.
Because of delays.
Because of intervention.
Because someone—...