Desperate to support my family and keep food on the table, I took a job working as a driver for a wealthy widow.
Espiode 3.
And beside it was an amount of money so large that I nearly dropped the document from shock.
My eyes moved over the figure again and again.
Surely, I was reading it incorrectly.
“This can't be right,” I whispered.
The lawyer calmly adjusted his glasses.
“It is correct.”
“But why?” I asked. “I've only worked for Madam Adebayo for a few months.”
The lawyer smiled faintly.
“You believe she hired you by chance?”
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
He opened a file and removed several papers.
“Before employing anyone, Madam Adebayo conducted extensive background checks. She knew about your late father. She knew about your wife. She knew about the sacrifices you have made to raise your children.”
My throat tightened.
“She even knew about the day you sold your motorcycle to pay your daughter's school fees.”
I was speechless.
There were very few people who knew that story.
The lawyer continued.
“Madam Adebayo had become extremely suspicious of everyone around her. Most people wanted something from her. Money. Property. Influence. Yet every report about you said the same thing.”
I looked at him.
“You were honest.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he handed me another letter.
“This one is from her personally.”
My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
“Dear Chinedu,
By the time you read this, you will probably be confused and angry with me.
You have every right to be.
I allowed you to suffer humiliation in order to complete something I should have done years ago.
For that, I sincerely apologize.
During the months you worked for me, I observed something rare.
You never asked me for money.
You never tried to take advantage of my kindness.
You never lied.
When I invited you into my home, you remained respectful.
When I shared my loneliness, you listened.
And when everyone else saw me as a bank account, you treated me like a human being.
That is why I trust you.”
I paused and swallowed hard.
The words felt heavier than the money.
I continued reading.
“My children have spent years fighting over an inheritance that does not yet belong to them. They have forgotten the values their father and I worked so hard to teach them.
The evidence collected by my lawyer will be enough to expose everything.
However, I fear that after the truth comes out, I may not have much time left to repair the damage within my family.
That is why I have made certain decisions.”
My pulse quickened.
The next paragraph changed everything.
“I have created a trust fund for your three children.
Their education will be fully paid for from primary school through university.
In addition, a portion of my estate has been left in your name.”
Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them.
For years I had worried about school fees.
I had spent countless nights wondering how I would provide for my family.
And now, suddenly, those fears were disappearing.
But then I reached the final page.
My relief vanished instantly.
“Unfortunately, there is something else you need to know.
Yesterday evening, after accusing you of theft, my children confronted me privately.
What they did not realize was that every word was recorded.
The conversation confirmed my worst fears.
They are no longer simply greedy.
They are desperate.
And desperate people can become dangerous.”
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
The letter continued.
“My lawyer has been instructed to release the evidence if anything happens to me.
If you are reading this and I have not contacted you within twenty-four hours, you must assume that something has gone wrong.”
I looked up sharply.
The lawyer's expression had suddenly become serious.
“How long ago was this letter written?” I asked.
“Yesterday morning,” he replied quietly.
My heart began pounding.
I checked the time.
Almost twenty-six hours had passed.
“Have you spoken to Madam Adebayo today?” I asked.
The lawyer slowly shook his head.
“No.”
A heavy silence filled the office.
Then his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
The colour immediately drained from his face.
For several seconds, he simply stared.
“What is it?” I asked.
The lawyer lowered the phone.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Madam Adebayo has disappeared.”
At that exact moment, another message arrived.
The lawyer opened it.
Attached was a photograph.
As soon as I saw the image, my blood ran cold.
It was a picture of Madam Adebayo's empty wheelchair.
And taped to the seat was a single handwritten message.
“Stop looking for her.”
Espiode 4.
It was a picture of Madam Adebayo's empty wheelchair.
And taped to the seat was a single handwritten message.
“Stop looking for her.”
The office fell silent.
I stared at the photograph, unable to look away.
The lawyer immediately grabbed his phone.
“Call the police,” he instructed his assistant.
Within minutes, the office became chaotic.
Phones were ringing.
People were rushing in and out.
Yet all I could think about was the woman who had trusted me enough to change my family's future.
Now she was gone.
Three hours later, I found myself sitting inside a police station giving a statement.
The investigators asked dozens of questions.
When had I last seen her?
What had she told me?
Did I suspect anyone?
I answered everything honestly.
By the time I returned home that evening, exhaustion weighed heavily on me.
My wife immediately noticed something was wrong.
After putting the children to bed, I told her everything.
The accusation.
The hidden note.
The inheritance.
The disappearance.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finally finished, she looked terrified.
“Chinedu,” she said quietly, “what if her children discover that she left part of her estate to you?”
The question hit me like a punch.
I hadn't even considered it.
For the first time, I realized I might be in danger too.
The following morning, my fears became reality.
My phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
A male voice answered.
“Stay away from our family business.”
My heart skipped.
“Who is this?”
“You know exactly who this is.”
The line went dead.
A few seconds later, another message arrived.
This time it contained a photograph.
My house.
Taken from across the street.
A second message followed.
“We know where your children go to school.”
My blood turned cold.
I immediately called the lawyer.
He didn't sound surprised.
“Come to my office immediately,” he said.
When I arrived, two police officers were already waiting.
The lawyer closed his office door.
“We expected this,” he said.
“What do you mean expected it?” I asked.
He opened a folder.
Inside were copies of threatening messages sent to former staff members.
Housekeepers.
Drivers.
Gardeners.
Anyone who had ever challenged Madam Adebayo's children.
“They have a history of intimidation,” he explained.
“But this changes everything. Now we can prove witness harassment.”
One of the officers nodded.
“We'll increase protection around your family.”
For the first time in days, I felt slightly relieved.
Then the lawyer placed a small flash drive on his desk.
“There is one more development.”
My stomach tightened.
“What now?”
“We found something hidden among Madam Adebayo's files.”
He inserted the flash drive into his computer.
A video appeared on the screen.
Madam Adebayo sat alone in her study.
She looked calm.
Strangely calm.
As though she had expected all of this.
The recording began.
“If you are watching this, then my children have finally crossed a line I prayed they would never cross.”
My chest tightened.
She continued.
“I know my disappearance will raise many questions. That is why I recorded this message.”
The room became completely silent.
“First, let me make one thing clear.”
She leaned closer to the camera.
“If I vanish, it is not because I was kidnapped.”
The lawyer and I exchanged confused looks.
What did she mean?
Then she smiled.
A small, knowing smile.
“The truth is far more complicated.”
My pulse quickened.
“I spent years believing I could fix my family. I was wrong.”
She reached for something outside the frame.
A passport.
Then another.
And another.
My eyes widened.
“Six months ago, I began preparing for a possibility nobody imagined.”
The lawyer looked stunned.
“What possibility?” I whispered.
On the screen, Madam Adebayo answered as though she had heard me.
“The possibility that one day I might need to disappear by choice.”
The room went silent.
I could hardly breathe.
She continued.
“Everything that has happened was carefully planned. The accusations. The investigation. The evidence.”
Then she looked directly into the camera.
“But there is one secret I have kept from everyone.”
My heart pounded.
Even the police officers leaned forward.
“Not even my lawyer knows this.”
The lawyer frowned.
Clearly, this was news to him too.
Madam Adebayo took a deep breath.
Then she spoke the words that changed everything.
“Twenty-eight years ago, my husband and I had a fifth child.”
I froze.
The lawyer froze.
Everyone in the room froze.
“A child my four children know nothing about.”
The screen suddenly went black.
The video ended.
And underneath the file was a single label.
"Continue with Recording 2."
Episode 5.
Nobody spoke.
The screen remained black.
The room felt frozen.
I stared at the monitor, trying to process what I had just heard.
A fifth child.
A secret child.
One that none of Madam Adebayo's four children knew existed.
The lawyer was the first to move.
With trembling fingers, he clicked on the second file.
The screen flickered.
Then Madam Adebayo appeared again.
This time she looked older.
More tired.
As if the weight of the secret had followed her for years.
She took a deep breath before speaking.
“If you are watching Recording 2, then I am either missing or beyond your reach.”
My heart pounded.
The police officers listened carefully.
“This is the truth I should have told decades ago.”
She paused.
“Twenty-eight years ago, my husband had a brief affair.”
The lawyer exchanged a glance with one of the officers.
“I discovered the affair after the child was born.”
I leaned forward.
The room was completely silent.
“At first, I hated both of them.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“I hated the woman. I hated my husband. And I hated what their betrayal had done to our family.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek.
“But none of it was the child's fault.”
I felt a lump form in my throat.
“Three years later, the child's mother died in a road accident.”
The lawyer's expression changed.
“My husband begged me to help.”
Madam Adebayo looked down at her hands.
“And despite everything, I agreed.”
The room remained silent.
“For years, we secretly supported the child financially.”
My pulse quickened.
“We paid school fees. Medical bills. Rent.”
The lawyer leaned closer.
“But we never revealed our identities.”
Then Madam Adebayo looked directly into the camera.
“Not even the child knows who their real father was.”
I nearly fell out of my chair.
The officers looked just as shocked.
The child had no idea.
Not even after twenty-eight years.
Madam Adebayo continued.
“My husband died carrying that guilt.”
She swallowed hard.
“And before his death, he made me promise something.”
The screen seemed to grow darker.
“He made me promise that one day, the child would receive their rightful share of the family inheritance.”
The lawyer's eyes widened.
Suddenly everything made sense.
The changes in the will.
The secret meetings.
The missing documents.
The arguments with her children.
The hidden notes.
Everything.
“My four children would never accept this,” she continued.
“They believe the entire estate belongs to them.”
Her expression hardened.
“But their father had another wish.”
She reached into a drawer.
Then held up a sealed envelope.
“This envelope contains the identity of the fifth child.”
My chest tightened.
Even the officers leaned forward again.
“If anything happens to me, this envelope must be opened.”
The lawyer whispered softly.
“My God.”
Madam Adebayo nodded as if she expected that reaction.
“Whoever receives this message must ensure the truth is protected.”
Then her eyes seemed to focus directly on me.
I knew it was impossible.
But somehow it felt like she was staring straight into my soul.
“Chinedu.”
I nearly jumped from my seat.
The lawyer looked at me.
The officers looked at me.
My hands began to shake.
She had said my name.
“If you are watching this with them, then I made the correct choice.”
My mouth went dry.
“Throughout this ordeal, you have shown more honesty than many members of my own family.”
I could barely breathe.
“Which is why I trusted you.”
The room fell silent once more.
Then Madam Adebayo smiled.
A sad smile.
“The envelope is hidden somewhere nobody would ever think to search.”
My pulse raced.
“Not in my house.”
The lawyer quickly grabbed a pen.
“Not in my office.”
He started taking notes.
“Not in any bank.”
The tension became unbearable.
Then she spoke four words.
“The envelope is with—”
The video suddenly froze.
The screen glitched.
Static filled the speakers.
The lawyer clicked repeatedly.
Nothing happened.
The file had become corrupted.
“No...” he muttered.
I felt my stomach drop.
The most important part was gone.
The identity of the fifth child.
The location of the envelope.
All of it had vanished.
For several moments, nobody spoke.
Then one of the officers broke the silence.
“Wait.”
He pointed toward the bottom corner of the screen.
A timestamp.
And beneath it, something else.
A location tag.
A location Madam Adebayo had accidentally left visible before the recording ended.
The lawyer stared at it.
His face turned pale.
I looked closer.
And the moment I read the name, my entire body went numb.
Because it was a place I knew very well.
A place connected directly to me.
A place I had visited just three days before Madam Adebayo disappeared.
And suddenly I realized something terrifying.
Episode 6.
My hands began to tremble.
I couldn't take my eyes off the location tag.
The lawyer noticed my reaction immediately.
"Chinedu?" he asked carefully.
I swallowed hard.
"I know that place."
The room instantly became tense.
The officers exchanged glances.
"What place is it?" one of them asked.
I took a deep breath.
"It belongs to my late uncle."
Nobody spoke.
The lawyer frowned.
"Your uncle?"
I nodded.
"A small property on the outskirts of the city."
The officer stepped closer.
"And you visited there three days before Madam Adebayo disappeared?"
"Yes."
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
The lawyer slowly removed his glasses.
"Tell us everything."
My mind raced.
I had never connected the place to Madam Adebayo.
Not once.
It was an old building that had been abandoned for years.
My uncle had passed away nearly a decade earlier.
Since then, nobody in the family had shown much interest in it.
Except me.
Three days before Madam Adebayo vanished, I had gone there to inspect the property.
I was considering selling it.
The roof was damaged.
The walls were cracked.
The entire place looked forgotten.
At least, that was what I had believed.
"Was anyone there when you visited?" one of the officers asked.
I hesitated.
Then something suddenly came back to me.
A memory.
A strange memory.
"There was a car."
The lawyer sat upright.
"A car?"
I nodded.
"Parked behind the building."
The officers leaned forward.
"I assumed it belonged to one of the neighboring farmers."
The lawyer quickly wrote something down.
"What kind of car?"
I closed my eyes.
Trying to remember.
Then it hit me.
My blood ran cold.
"It was Madam Adebayo's car."
The room exploded with shock.
"What?"
I nodded slowly.
"I didn't recognize it at the time because I only saw the rear of the vehicle."
The officers immediately pulled out their phones.
One of them checked the registration details.
His face darkened.
"It matches."
A chill swept through the room.
The car had been there.
Three days before her disappearance.
The lawyer stood up.
"We need to go there immediately."
Within thirty minutes, we were on the road.
Two police vehicles followed behind us.
Nobody spoke during the drive.
The closer we got, the heavier the atmosphere became.
My stomach twisted with anxiety.
Eventually the property appeared ahead.
The old rusted gate stood exactly as I remembered.
The officers stepped out first.
The lawyer followed.
I remained frozen beside the car.
For some reason, I didn't want to go inside.
A terrible feeling had settled deep inside me.
One of the officers pushed the gate open.
It groaned loudly.
The sound echoed across the empty land.
We entered cautiously.
The building looked abandoned.
Just as before.
Dust covered everything.
Broken windows lined the walls.
But then one of the officers stopped suddenly.
"Wait."
Everyone turned.
He pointed toward the ground.
Fresh footprints.
The lawyer's eyes widened.
Someone had been here recently.
Very recently.
The officers followed the trail.
It led toward the back of the building.
Toward an old storage shed.
My pulse hammered inside my chest.
The shed had been locked when I visited.
Now the padlock hung broken.
The officers drew their weapons.
The lawyer looked terrified.
Slowly, the door was pushed open.
Darkness filled the room.
For a few seconds, nobody moved.
Then one officer switched on a flashlight.
The beam swept across the floor.
Across old boxes.
Across dusty furniture.
And then stopped.
Every person in the room froze.
Because sitting in the corner was a wheelchair.
Madam Adebayo's wheelchair.
The same wheelchair from the photograph.
My heart nearly stopped.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The flashlight moved again.
And revealed something hidden beneath the chair.
A large metal safe.
Locked.
Untouched.
The lawyer stared at it.
His face turned completely pale.
Because engraved on the front of the safe were three words.
"Adebayo Family Trust."
And suddenly we all realized the envelope might be inside.
But as one officer stepped forward to examine it, he noticed something else.
A small blinking red light attached to the side.
His eyes widened.
"Nobody move."
The room instantly froze.
Because the safe wasn't alone.
Someone had connected it to something.
Something hidden underneath the floorboards.
May you like
And whatever it was...
Was still active.
