My son died two years ago. Last night, at 3:07 a.m., he called me and whispered: “Mama… let me in. I’m cold.”

—“You told me not to tell her,” she whispered.

Chuka’s face hardened.

—“I know.”

Adanna stepped inside, her gaze locked directly onto him.

No shock.

No confusion.

Only something far more terrifying.

Recognition.

Adanna didn’t rush.

She walked in like someone arriving exactly where she expected to be.

—“So,” she said calmly, pulling out a chair. “The dead finally learned how to make appointments.”

Nneka felt her throat tighten.

Chuka didn’t sit.

—“You followed her,” he said.

—“Of course I did,” Adanna replied, folding her arms. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice when Mama started acting like she’d seen a ghost?”

A thin smile touched her lips.

—“Turns out, I was right.”

Nneka looked between them, her voice shaking.

—“Adanna… you knew?”

Adanna didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on Chuka.

—“You were supposed to stay dead.”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Chuka exhaled slowly.

—“So it was you.”

—“Don’t flatter yourself,” Adanna snapped. “You were just… in the way.”

Nneka’s hand flew to her chest.

—“In the way of what?!”

Adanna laughed softly.

—“Money, Mama. What else moves this world?”

Chuka’s jaw tightened.

—“Tell her. Tell her about the company.”

Nneka blinked.

—“What company?”

Silence.

Then Adanna sighed, as if bored of the secrecy.

—“Your son wasn’t just working his little import business,” she said. “He was sitting on something much bigger.”

Chuka spoke, his voice low.

—“I discovered illegal accounts. Offshore. Millions being moved through shell companies.”

Nneka stared at him.

—“By who?”

Chuka’s eyes flicked to Adanna.

—“Her family.”