Temilade did not tell Bolanle about the messages.
Not yet.
She had spent most of the morning thinking about the three sentences on her phone.
You should have left the past alone.
Your family kept you safe once.
Don’t make them do it again.
Ask Bolanle what happened after Samuel disappeared.
The messages were still there.
So was the number.
She had saved everything.
But she had learned enough already to know that fear could make people connect things too quickly.
She didn’t know who had sent the messages.
She didn’t know how they knew she had spoken to Bolanle.
And she certainly didn’t know whether the sender understood more about Samuel’s disappearance than the records did.
Damilare had told her not to reply.
For once, she intended to listen.
She looked across the office at him.
“You’re quiet.”
“So are you.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About the messages?”
“Partly.”
Damilare leaned back.
“Protection can become another form of deciding for someone.”
Temilade looked at him.
“That’s what Bolanle did.”
“She thought she was protecting you.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t make the decision right.”
“No.”
Temilade looked down at the papers in front of her.
“It doesn’t make the love false either.”
Damilare nodded.
“Both things can be true.”
Before she could answer, Segun entered carrying a thin folder.
“I found something.”
Temilade straightened.
“Another record?”
“Yes.”
He placed it on the table.
“The receiving reference from 1996.”
Temilade looked at the page.
There it was again.
TRANSFERRED — 1996
Below it, a later notation:
COLLECTED BY AUTHORISED REPRESENTATIVE
And beside it:
T.A.
Temilade stared at the initials.
“Still no full name?”
“No.”
“Who authorised the collection?”
“Not stated.”
“Who received it?”
“That’s what the phrase is supposed to tell us.”
“Supposed to?”
Segun nodded.
“It confirms the collection was made by someone acting under authority. It doesn’t tell us who that person actually was.”
Damilare picked up the page.
“Is there anything else?”
“There’s a problem.”
Segun turned the page over.
The sheet before the collection entry had been torn from the register.
Temilade frowned.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you tell whether it was removed recently?”
“No. The remaining edge is old.”
Damilare examined it.
“So we can’t say the page was removed because of this investigation.”
“Correct.”
“Good.”
Temilade looked at him.
“Good?”
“Good that we’re not inventing a reason for something we can’t date.”
She shook her head.
“You really don’t allow anything.”
“I allow possibilities.”
“Just not conclusions.”
“Not without evidence.”
Segun smiled faintly.
“That’s why I brought it.”
Temilade looked again at the torn page.
A missing page.
A missing file.
A missing name.
It was beginning to feel like the entire history had been written around absences.
She pushed the thought away.
“What else?”
Segun hesitated.
“There is another notation.”
He handed her a photocopy.
COLLECTION AUTHORISED UNDER SETTLEMENT REFERENCE.
S.A.
NOTIFIED.
“S.A.”
“Yes.”
“Samuel Adebayo.”
“Possibly.”
She looked at Damilare.
“You’re going to say we don’t know.”
“We don’t know.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
Segun nodded.
“We shouldn’t attach a full name to initials just because the rest of the story makes it tempting.”
Temilade sighed.
“I know.”
Damilare placed the page back on the table.
“If S.A. is Samuel, the record establishes that he was notified.”
“Not that he approved it,” Temilade said.
“Correct.”
“Not that he collected it.”
“Correct.”
“Not that he knew what was inside.”
“Correct.”
She looked at him.
“You’ve trained me.”
“I was hoping you’d say educated.”
She smiled despite herself.
“Don’t push it.”
That afternoon, Temilade went back to see Bolanle.
This time, she took the messages with her.
Bolanle was sitting in the sitting room when she arrived.
“You came back.”
“I need to ask you something.”
Bolanle’s face tightened.
“About Simi?”
“About the messages.”
She showed her the phone.
Bolanle read them.
The colour left her face.
“Don’t answer them.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good.”
Temilade watched her.
“You recognise this?”
“I recognise the fear.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Bolanle looked away.
“I don’t know who sent them.”
“But you’ve seen this kind of warning before.”
Bolanle remained silent.
Temilade sat beside her.
“What happened after Samuel disappeared?”
Bolanle’s hands tightened in her lap.
“You asked me that yesterday.”
“And you didn’t answer.”
“I told you what I knew.”
“No. You told me you were told he was dead.”
Bolanle looked at her.
“Temilade—”
“What happened after?”
For a long moment, Bolanle said nothing.
Then she spoke.
“People came looking.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many?”
“Twice that I remember.”
“Looking for Samuel?”
“No.”
Bolanle’s voice became quieter.
“They asked about Simi.”
Temilade felt a chill.
“And me?”
Bolanle nodded.
“They asked about the child.”
“Did they know my name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid.”
Temilade looked down.
“Afraid of what?”
“That they would come back.”
“Did they?”
“Not after that.”
Temilade studied her aunt’s face.
“You knew enough to be afraid.”
Bolanle nodded.
“I knew enough to understand that asking questions could make things worse.”
“But you still let me grow up without knowing who I was.”
Bolanle’s eyes filled.
“I thought the lie would protect you.”
“It became my life.”
“I know.”
Temilade looked away.
“Did Simi ever tell you why she wanted me hidden?”
“She said the people looking for the documents might eventually look for you.”
“Because of the second file?”
Bolanle shook her head.
“Because of Samuel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what do you know?”
Bolanle looked at her.
“Your mother wanted you alive.”
The words silenced the room.
Temilade swallowed.
“That’s all?”
“For a long time, that was enough for me.”
Temilade looked at her.
“It isn’t enough for me anymore.”
Bolanle nodded.
“I know.”
Back at the office, Damilare was waiting.
“We found something else,” he said.
“Another file?”
“Not exactly.”
He placed an old inventory photocopy on the table.
“There’s a note attached to the collection record.”
Temilade read it.
FILE COLLECTED AS PART OF PRIVATE SETTLEMENT.
Below it, another notation contained Samuel’s name.
She looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Samuel’s name was connected to the file.”
“How?”
“We don’t know.”
She looked at the record again.
“Could it mean he authorised the collection?”
“It could.”
“Could it mean he objected?”
“It could.”
“Could it mean he was simply notified?”
“Yes.”
Temilade exhaled.
“Then we’re still where we were.”
“No.”
Damilare pointed to the document.
“We know the file was collected under a settlement reference.”
“And?”
“We know Samuel’s name appears in the associated record.”
“And?”
“We know someone thought that connection was important enough to record.”
Temilade looked at him.
“That’s not much.”
“It’s more than yesterday.”
She nodded reluctantly.
Then Damilare’s phone rang.
He checked the screen.
“Kunle.”
He answered.
“Hello?”
Temilade watched his expression change.
“What?”
A pause.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Are you sure?”
Damilare looked at Temilade.
“We can come.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Kunle found something in his father’s records.”
“Another copy?”
“Something older.”
“What is it?”
“He wants us to see it in person.”
Temilade stood.
“Where?”
Kunle’s address came through in a message.
Damilare showed her.
She recognised the area.
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
Temilade looked at the documents scattered across the table.
The missing page.
The missing file.
The initials.
The warning.
Samuel’s name.
Everything seemed connected.
But not enough to prove how.
She picked up her bag.
“Then tomorrow.”
Damilare nodded.
As they left the office, Temilade looked once more at the photocopy.
S.A.
NOTIFIED.
Three letters.
One possible name.
And a question that refused to disappear.
If Samuel had known the file was being collected, what had he done about it?
And if he had objected, where was that objection recorded?
The answer, she suspected, was somewhere in the material they had not yet found.
And somewhere ahead, another piece of the past was waiting to be uncovered.