COLD FIRE: Part 3

Chrissy clasped my hand, her words carrying an eerie weight. What she proposed was unthinkable. Throughout her rushed murmurs, I could sense Mother’s unwavering gaze on me, her eyes piercing through me. Deciphering Chrissy’s words felt like deciphering a cryptic code. “I think you should look into Elijah and… your father,” she said, her voice laden with urgency. Before I could press her further, she was abruptly led away, handcuffed, and transferred to a holding cell. I barely had a moment to process why she had emphasized the importance of involving Father in this investigation.

Mother’s cold hands found purchase on my exposed shoulder where my sleeveless top ended. Amara would never have worn anything sleeveless. The stretch marks on her arms, extending from her armpits to her forearms, were a source of anxiety for her. She had tried countless products that promised to erase them, but none had proven effective. One product had even worsened their appearance. Resigned, she opted for shirts that bared her flat tummy and flawless navel – a stark contrast to my round, protruding navel that was impossible to conceal in dresses.

“Did she say anything to you?” Mother’s eyes bore into me, her curiosity apparent.

“It’s about Elijah,” I began, hinting at Amara’s boyfriend. I debated whether to mention the part about Father being questioned as well. It seemed implausible that Father could be connected to something so heinous. I glanced at him, engrossed in conversation with a police officer, his hands occasionally grazing his neatly shaved head. He was meticulous about his appearance, visiting the salon every two weeks. “She said we should question Elijah. She claimed innocence.”

Mother seemed well aware that I was withholding something from her. As soon as we returned from the police station, she pulled me aside. “Did she mention anything about who might have killed your sister? Is there any reason why Amara might have been targeted?” Her voice was hushed, marked by an urgency to solve the puzzle.

“She suggested we investigate Dad. But it can’t mean anything,” I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could fully process them. The realization hit me as I observed Mother’s reaction – a mixture of complete denial and disbelief.

Dinner that night remained untouched, and sleep eluded me. Visions of Father mercilessly stabbing Amara haunted my thoughts, her breath slowly fading away. Father was a distinct individual – he cared for us deeply. He was generous and cherished not only his own children but all children. I recalled how he had personally financed a school trip to Ogbudu Cattle Ranch the year I failed to secure the top spot in my class. My subpar performance had disappointed him, leading to my exclusion from the excursion. It was a lesson I wouldn’t forget, and it marked the end of my nonchalant attitude toward schooling. Father’s discipline methods often baffled Amara, who saw his obsession with education as a result of his own unfulfilled academic aspirations – his father hadn’t been able to support him through university. There was no way Father could have been capable of harming Amara.

In the aftermath of Amara’s burial, our family underwent a profound transformation. A cloud of darkness hung over us. Mother distanced herself from Father, refusing to communicate with him. It took over six months of counselling to mend her wounds and alter her approach. She emerged as the family’s leader, making all significant decisions. Father’s voice was muted, but Mother stood steadfast by his side.

Now, at the age of thirty, I’m haunted by the question of what might have transpired if Father had been investigated. Perhaps then, Amara could rest in peace. She still visits me in the depths of night, resurrecting the nightmares that plagued me 15 years ago. Dear Reader, you might perceive Amara as a fictional character, but she’s my sister and the daughter of my father’s estranged lover. Everyone but me seemed privy to the truth about Amara’s birth. With this revelation, I gained a deeper understanding of Father’s complex attitude toward Amara. I now comprehend why she referred to me as the golden child.

My name is Chinelo Nweze, and I fervently advocate for the reopening of Amara Nweze’s case.

THE END!

You can find the beginning here: COLD FIRE

Check other series here: Dark Hollow