Jerry’s fingers curled around the armrest.
Tunde glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Sir, where exactly?”
“Ikeja,” Jerry said. “The garden.”
Tunde started the car.
As the SUV moved away, Jerry watched the market disappear behind them. And beneath the shock, beneath the relief, something else began to form inside him.
Anger.
If Mirabel was not dead, then what had happened for the past seven days?
Who had watched him grieve and stayed silent?
He looked at her again.
She sat very still, her hands folded tightly. Her face looked thinner. Her blouse was wrinkled, as if she had slept in it. Her sandals were cheap, not the kind he bought for her. Her nails were bare.
Mirabel liked her nails neat, even if it was only clear polish.
“Where have you been?” Jerry asked more gently.
“Not far,” she said, “but far enough.”
“And your phone?”
“I can’t use it. They can track it.”
“They?”
Mirabel pressed her lips together.
Jerry watched her chest rise and fall too quickly.
The car moved through Lagos: through traffic near Maryland, past shouting conductors and crowded bus stops, past pedestrians weaving between vehicles as if chaos were normal.
Then they reached a quiet garden in Ikeja.
Green plants. Soft breeze. A few people strolling calmly.
It felt like another world.
Tunde parked. Jerry turned to Mirabel.
“Here. No crowd. No noise.”
Mirabel nodded, but her hands were trembling.
Jerry got out and helped her out too, still half afraid she would vanish if he let go.
They walked to a bench under a tree and sat down.
