Chief Kletchi forced his mind to move. He needed security. He needed police. He needed proof. He needed out.
Then his phone vibrated in his pocket.
The sound was small, but in the storage room it felt enormous.
Both of them froze.
He pulled it out.
The bright screen lit his face.
Incoming call: Amaka
Bissy’s eyes widened in fresh horror.
“Sir,” she whispered. “Do not answer.”
His thumb hovered over the button. If he answered, she would know he was home. If he did not answer, she might suspect something was wrong.
The phone kept vibrating.
Then, outside the nearly closed door, a shadow moved across the corridor.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Coming closer.
Bissy grabbed his wrist again so tightly that her nails pressed into his skin.
“Sir. Someone is coming.”
Chief Kletchi held his breath.
The phone kept ringing.
The shadow grew larger through the crack.
He could almost hear the soft drag of polished shoes against tile.
Then the ringing stopped.
Not because he answered.
Because the call ended.
The hallway became horribly quiet.
Chief Kletchi slipped the phone into his pocket and flattened himself against the stacked cartons. Sweat crawled down the back of his neck. Bissy leaned toward the crack in the door, her whole body tense.
A shape stopped directly outside.
The handle moved slightly.
Bissy nearly stopped breathing.
Then a man’s voice spoke.
“Bissy.”
Calm. Curious. Too close.
She answered instantly, forcing steadiness into her tone. “Yes, sir?”
The handle stilled.
“What are you doing there?”
Bissy glanced once at Chief Kletchi, then back at the door.
“I was arranging the cleaning supplies,” she said. “Madam asked me to clean the guest bathroom later.”
A pause.
Sweat ticked down Chief Kletchi’s temple.
Then the man gave a small laugh.
