It can be said that sadness has a presence — a presence that can be strongly felt. In the case of Mr. Okafor's household, it is deeply felt, for it has come to stay — for how long, one can't tell. They are grieving. Their tears are like a waterfall, falling endlessly. Mrs. Okafor and her children have tasted the embodiment of sorrow.
Neighbours, friends, and family have tried consoling them, but their words of comfort were not strong enough to melt the raging sorrow that soars higher with each passing moment. Mr. Fadeyi was among those who came to express his condolences. It pained him that his friend had joined the growing list of victims claimed by the serial killer.
But that wasn't all. Worry also weighed heavily on him. He feared for Mr. Okafor's family. Knowing the pattern of the past killings carried out by the serial killer, no family was ever spared. Each victim's wife and children were murdered. It was predictable — the killer would come for them next. Or would they be an exception?
He could only ponder bitterly as his eyes settled on the sorrow-stricken faces of his friend's family. He had been in their house for a few hours, offering comfort. The air was thick with grief, the silence broken only by the occasional sobs from Mrs. Okafor or the sniffles of the children who still didn't fully understand the permanence of death. He had watched them closely, especially the youngest child who clutched a framed photo of their father as though it could bring him back. The older ones sat still, staring at the walls, their eyes blank, their spirits broken.
He had tried to say all the right things, but none of it seemed enough. Words failed in the face of such pain. What could anyone possibly say to ease the weight of their loss — especially when the danger wasn't over?
As he stood up to leave, he scanned the surroundings again. Something about the atmosphere unsettled him. Maybe it was just paranoia, but a chill crawled up his spine. He reminded them to stay alert, to lock every door and window, and to call the police immediately if they noticed anything strange. Still, even as he said it, he wondered if any of it would truly help. After all, the killer was cunning, always ten steps ahead, always in control. It was as if the murders were part of a twisted performance, and everyone else were just actors unaware of the script.
Just as he was about to take his leave, a haunting thought crept in — one he refused to acknowledge or fully consider. "Could it be... No!" he dismissed the thought before it could fully take shape.
****
Just like her parents and everyone else who heard the news about Mr. Okafor's death, Linda couldn't help but feel sad—though probably not the kind of sadness that Mrs. Okafor and her children felt. Hers was more of a mixture of empathy and sympathy. She had thought Mr. Okafor had a chance of escaping death. Everybody must have had the same thought—or so she believed. She felt as though the serial killer was somehow bending fate to his will, like a puppeteer pulling invisible strings while the rest of them watched, helpless. It was terrifying, knowing that no matter how hopeful they were, death always seemed to arrive.
She gazed at her school books, which were littered across the bed, for a moment. Indeed, she had been in the middle of doing her assignments before those thoughts came in, serving as a distraction—the kind that's unavoidable.
The math problems on the page now looked like gibberish, distant and irrelevant. How could numbers matter when someone so full of life was gone? She sighed deeply, trying to push the thoughts aside, but they clung stubbornly to her mind, like shadows in a room with no light.
Just as she was about to continue her assignments, a thought suddenly struck her, as if it had been pending and had finally broken through the walls of her mind. She thought, "Could the Okafor family be in danger as well?"
She could only wonder if the police had considered that possibility too—and whether they were planning to protect them. A short while later, she finally returned to her assignments.
****
Roland's eyes blazed with a fire his colleagues had never seen before.
"Gather around. We still have work to do. Mr. Okafor's death is not a reason to think there's nothing left to protect. His wife and children are still alive—still breathing—and that ruthless killer may be plotting to take their lives next. They are what's left of Mr. Okafor, and they matter—deeply. I know you're all shaken after discovering that one of your own may have turned his back on you. You believe Campbell is the serial killer, and from what happened that dreadful night, that seems likely. But will you let fear turn you into cowards? Will you stand by and allow Mr. Okafor's family to die? No, you won't! You're officers of the law. It's your duty to protect the weak and those in need of safety. So I implore you—take my words to heart and act with courage. Safeguard the lives of Mrs. Okafor and her children. I've spoken to the Commissioner of Police, he gave me the honour of addressing you on his behalf. With that said, let's get to work. Head to the Okafor household immediately," Roland said, exhaling calmly.
As he exited the police station, he couldn't help but reflect on how grim the situation had become. It saddened him that the serial killer's attempt on Mr. Okafor's life hadn't failed.
Then, another thought crept in — "What could the serial killer be plotting right now? What is his next move?"
****
Death! Humanity's greatest foe. It comes whenever it wants. It's unfair, wicked, cruel — that's what people say. But one of the most fascinating mysteries about death is that its manner of approach might differ from what the public thinks. And that difference is often explored and exploited by a cunning set of humans.
They manipulate the deaths of certain individuals.
Let's say a man dies of old age — a very natural cause. No one would think twice about it. But what if that man's death wasn't natural at all? What if he was killed — a perfect death crafted for perfect deception, one that wouldn't even suggest an autopsy?
That old man could have been smothered with a pillow, injected with a deadly sedative, or taken out in any way that shuts down his breathing without raising suspicion. He could have been murdered by his son or a relative who wanted his inheritance — or because of something he knew. He could have been killed by a friend. It could be anyone. Perhaps a contract killing… or the result of manipulation so subtle, someone else did the job without even realizing they were a pawn.
And that "someone"? The least likely suspect. The one no one would ever imagine.
They speak of Mr. Okafor's death as if the doctor simply couldn't save him from the fatal wounds he sustained from my gunshots. But what if fate actually gave him a chance to survive — and I deprived him of it? Maybe I did it myself. Maybe someone did it for me.
But in the end… they didn't see it coming. They couldn't predict it. They still have no clue.
They thought they were always a step ahead — watching, waiting, calculating. Their surveillance was tight, their theories tighter. Clues were connected with red strings and pins on cluttered whiteboards, their war room buzzing with false confidence. But all of it… meaningless. I had already anticipated every move, every deduction, every breath they would take. While they were chasing shadows, I was slipping right through their fingers, hiding in plain sight. Every clue they found was a piece I allowed them to uncover. Every lead? A path I laid out to amuse myself — like feeding crumbs to starving minds. The detective, their so-called savior, was the most amusing of all. His arrogance was delicious, his certainty laughable. He believed in justice, in truth, in the inevitability of catching the "monster." But what happens when the monster is the one writing the rules of the game? What happens when the prey was never prey at all, but predator in disguise?
I believe his mind has a limit — a threshold to how far it can deduce or question. If only he knew that I, his opponent, was already winning the game of tag before any move was made... he'd retrace his steps and try harder.
Hahahaha! How much fun can this get?