“Enough to arrest him, convict him, and bury him under the prison,” Zunaira said. “If we handle it correctly.”
She held up a finger before I could speak.
“We do not hand this to just anyone. Men like your husband survive because they understand who can be bought and who can be delayed. I know one detective I trust.”
“Who?”
“Detective Hightower. Homicide. Honest to the point of inconvenience.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She glanced at my phone, which had been buzzing itself half-dead on the desk.
“Your husband has called you seven times and sent fifteen texts.”
I picked it up.
The screen was lit with message after message.
Ayira, where are you?
For God’s sake, answer me.
Police said they didn’t find your body.
Are you hurt?
Please answer.
Then the newest message, five minutes old:
I know you’re alive. I know you took the things from the safe. We need to talk. Urgent.
“He knows,” I said.
“Good,” Zunaira replied.
I looked at her. “Good?”
“Answer him.”
“What?”
“Tell him you want to meet in a public place tomorrow morning.”
“Why would I do that?”
Her smile returned—the one that looked like a blade wrapped in patience.
“Because,” she said, “we’re going to give him a chance to hang himself.”
My fingers shook as I typed.
Centennial Olympic Park. Near the fountain. Tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. Come alone.
His answer came in seconds.
I’ll be there. Things aren’t what you think.
Things aren’t what you think.
The audacity of it almost made me laugh.
By sunrise the plan was set.
Detective Hightower agreed to meet first. We gave him the phones, the notebook, the text records, the timeline, the names. He reviewed everything with the flat, focused expression of a man who had seen too much evil to be surprised by it, but not so much that it stopped mattering.
“This is strong,” he said. “Very strong. But if he believes she’s alone and vulnerable, he may give us even more.”
So they wired me.
Plainclothes officers spread out across the park. Some dressed like tourists. Some like joggers. One man pushed a hot-dog cart. Another stood near the fountain with a stroller. Cameras were positioned. Audio checked. Kenzo stayed at the office with Zunaira, watching through the secured live feed the police set up.
At 9:30 that morning, I sat alone on a bench in Centennial Olympic Park and waited.
The fountain spray rose and fell in the distance. Office workers crossed nearby streets with coffee cups in hand. School groups drifted past in matching T-shirts. The city moved around me in ordinary rhythms, and it seemed impossible that my own life had split cleanly in two in less than forty-eight hours.
Then I saw him.
Kwesi walked toward me exactly at 10:00.
He looked terrible.
Wrinkled clothes. Dark circles under his eyes. Unshaven jaw. For the first time since I met him, he looked less like a glossy image and more like a man whose insides were unraveling.
For one dangerous second, it almost made him look human.
Then he saw me and hurried forward with his arms half-lifted.
“Ayira,” he said. “Thank God.”
