Mirabel lowered her eyes.
The recording went on.
“If the food fails, the boys will handle the rest. A robbery gone wrong. Lagos is unsafe these days.”
Then the doctor’s voice entered—nervous, uncertain.
“And my role?”
“You will certify the death,” Madame Hannah said simply. “Natural complications. I will compensate you properly.”
The recording ended.
The garden suddenly felt too quiet.
Jerry did not move. He only stared ahead, as if he had just watched his childhood collapse.
Memories attacked him without warning.
His mother feeding him as a boy.
His mother defending him at school.
His mother holding his hand at his father’s burial.
She had always been strong, protective, unbreakable.
And now that same voice had calmly arranged murder.
Jerry covered his face with his hands.
“This… this is edited,” he said weakly, though even he did not believe it.
Mirabel shook her head.
“There’s more.”
She tapped another file.
Jerry looked up sharply.
The second recording began.
The doctor’s voice again, quieter this time, anxious.
“I cannot keep her here long. Someone may ask questions.”
Madame Hannah answered at once.
“Declare her dead tomorrow morning. I will arrange the mortuary. After burial, nobody will question anything.”
Jerry’s chest tightened painfully.
“And the husband?” the doctor asked.
