The message from Simi came at 6:17 p.m.
I can meet you.
Temilade read it twice.
She had been sitting at her desk for nearly twenty minutes without doing any real work.
The file in front of her remained open to the same page, but she had stopped reading it.
Her attention was on the phone.
Simi.
After everything they had uncovered, after the old records, the missing file, the unidentified man and the fragments surrounding Samuel’s disappearance, Simi had finally agreed to speak.
Temilade typed.
When?
The reply came almost immediately.
Tomorrow.
Ten.
Temilade waited.
No location followed.
Then another message appeared.
I’ll send the place in the morning.
Temilade placed the phone face down on the desk.
For several seconds, she did nothing.
Then she picked it up again.
Thank you.
There was no reply.
Across the office, Damilare was still reviewing the archive movement notes Segun had brought earlier.
He looked up.
“You heard from her?”
Temilade nodded.
“She agreed to meet.”
“When?”
“Ten tomorrow.”
Damilare closed the folder in front of him.
“That is good.”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t have to know.”
Temilade turned the phone in her hand.
“She disappeared from the record for years.”
“People disappear from records for many reasons.”
“That is exactly what worries me.”
Damilare watched her for a moment.
“What did she say?”
“Almost nothing.”
“That may be the point.”
Temilade looked at him.
“You think she’s afraid?”
“I think we don’t know.”
She nodded.
That was the answer she had learned to trust.
Not what they hoped.
Not what the gaps seemed to suggest.
What they actually knew.
Damilare tapped the folder beside him.
“Segun found another movement note.”
Temilade’s attention shifted.
“About the 1997 material?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
He turned the page toward her.
The note was brief.
A date.
A reference number.
A transfer notation.
Then a handwritten instruction.
RETAIN SEPARATELY.
Temilade read it twice.
“That’s all?”
“That is all.”
“Who wrote it?”
“No signature.”
“Initials?”
“None.”
She stared at the handwriting.
It was neat and controlled.
Almost mechanical.
“Could it be connected to the correspondence?”
“Possibly.”
“Could it be unrelated?”
“Also possible.”
Temilade sighed.
“This case is becoming a collection of possibilities.”
Damilare gave a faint smile.
“Better than a collection of assumptions.”
She looked at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I enjoy records that tell the truth.”
“And these records?”
“They are telling us that someone was very careful.”
Temilade looked back at the page.
That thought stayed with her.
Someone had been careful.
Careful enough to move documents without explaining why.
Careful enough to keep certain material separate.
Careful enough to leave references without names.
And careful enough to make the absence of information look ordinary.
She closed the folder.
“Let’s stop for tonight.”
Damilare nodded.
Neither of them moved immediately.
The silence between them had changed.
It was no longer the silence of uncertainty.
It was the silence before a door opened.
Temilade reached home just after eight.
The compound was quieter than usual.
She greeted the security man at the gate and walked upstairs, carrying the folder against her side.
She did not open it again.
Instead, she made tea and stood near the window.
Outside, Lagos moved as it always did.
Generators hummed from neighbouring compounds.
A motorcycle passed somewhere beyond the street.
A woman’s voice rose briefly from a nearby house before disappearing into the evening noise.
Temilade watched the lights.
Tomorrow.
Ten o’clock.
Simi.
She had rehearsed questions in her mind.
Where were you in 1996?
When did you last see Samuel?
Why did you leave?
Who knew about the property?
Did Samuel ever tell you he was afraid?
Did you know about the second file?
Did you know the man who followed him?
Had you ever seen him before?
But one question stood above all the others.
Why did you disappear?
She knew she could not begin with it.
People rarely answered the question they were most afraid of.
They answered the smaller ones first.
Temilade went to her desk and opened her notebook.
She wrote:
SIMI — MEETING
Then underneath:
Ask.
Listen.
Do not fill the silence.
She stopped.
Added another line.
Do not suggest answers.
That was important.
The case had already suffered from too many people trying to make incomplete records tell complete stories.
She closed the notebook.
Her phone rang.
Damilare.
She answered.
“You home?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to remind you about tomorrow.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.”
A pause followed.
Then he said, “Take someone with you.”
Temilade frowned.
“Why?”
“We don’t know what Simi wants.”
“She agreed to meet me.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Temilade walked back toward the window.
“You think it’s dangerous?”
“I think caution is reasonable.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “I’ll let you know the location when she sends it.”
“Please do.”
The call ended.
Temilade placed the phone down.
For the first time that evening, she felt a small unease settle in her stomach.
Not fear.
Something quieter.
The awareness that every new answer seemed to create another question.
She turned off the light.
At 6:42 the next morning, Simi finally sent the location.
A small café off a busy road in Surulere.
Public.
Open.
Not private.
Temilade stared at the message.
Then forwarded it to Damilare.
His response came almost immediately.
Good.
Public place.
Then another message:
I’ll be nearby.
Temilade smiled despite herself.
You worry too much.
His reply came a few seconds later.
You investigate too much.
She put the phone away.
The exchange should have made her feel lighter.
It didn’t.
As she prepared for the meeting, she found herself thinking about the archive again.
The old documents had never given them a complete story.
They had given them fragments.
A reference.
A movement record.
A missing second file.
A private correspondence.
A witness account.
An unidentified man.
Now Simi.
The danger was obvious.
They could begin connecting everything simply because the pieces appeared close together.
Temilade had promised herself she would not do that.
A connection had to be demonstrated.
Not imagined.
At 9:48 a.m., Temilade arrived at the café.
The morning crowd had already begun to thin.
She chose a table near the window.
Not because she expected trouble.
Because she preferred to see who entered.
She ordered water.
Then waited.
9:52.
9:57.
10:01.
At 10:04, the door opened.
Temilade looked up.
A woman entered.
She paused just inside the doorway.
Her eyes moved across the room.
Then stopped on Temilade.
For a moment, neither moved.
The woman walked toward the table.
She was older than Temilade had expected.
Her expression was guarded, but not hostile.
She stopped beside the chair.
“Temilade?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Simi.”
Temilade stood.
“Thank you for coming.”
Simi sat down.
The waiter approached.
She ordered coffee.
Then looked at Temilade.
“You have questions.”
Temilade nodded.
“Yes.”
“How much do you know?”
Temilade considered the question carefully.
“Enough to know that I don’t know enough.”
Simi’s expression changed slightly.
Not quite a smile.
Something closer to recognition.
“That is a better answer than most people would give.”
Temilade sat back down.
“I don’t want to put words in your mouth.”
“Good.”
“I want you to tell me what you remember.”
Simi looked toward the window.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she spoke.
“Samuel knew something was wrong.”
Temilade did not move.
“When?”
“Before he disappeared.”
“What was wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Simi looked back at her.
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
Temilade waited.
Simi lowered her voice.
“He said some things were safer when they were not written down.”
Temilade felt her pulse quicken.
But she kept her expression neutral.
“Did he say what things?”
“No.”
“Did he mention the property?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Simi hesitated.
“He said someone was trying to make the records disappear.”
Temilade’s fingers tightened slightly around her pen.
“Did he say who?”
“No.”
“Did he mention a second file?”
Simi looked directly at her.
For the first time, something like fear appeared in her eyes.
“I heard that phrase once.”
“From Samuel?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember who said it?”
“I remember the words.”
Temilade waited.
Simi looked down at her coffee.
Then she said quietly:
The words hung between them.
Temilade did not rush to fill the silence.
She remembered the instruction she had written in her notebook.
Listen.
Simi continued.
“I didn’t understand what it meant at the time.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I understand why Samuel was afraid.”
Temilade leaned forward slightly.
“Why?”
Simi looked toward the café entrance.
Then back at her.
“Because the first file was never the whole story.”
Temilade felt the weight of the sentence.
But she did not write it down immediately.
She wanted to hear what came next.
Simi lowered her voice.
“And there was someone else.”
Temilade looked at her.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
The room seemed suddenly quieter.
“What did he look like?”
Simi shook her head.
“I saw him only once.”
“Where?”
“Near Samuel.”
“When?”
Simi’s eyes dropped.
“Before he disappeared.”
Temilade waited.
Simi took a slow breath.
“He followed him.”
Temilade said nothing.
Outside, a bus moved through traffic.
Inside, the coffee machine hissed behind the counter.
Simi finally looked up.
“You wanted to know why I disappeared.”
Temilade nodded.
Simi’s face tightened.
“Because after Samuel disappeared, someone came looking for me.”
Temilade’s pen stopped.
“Who?”
“I never found out.”
“Did you see the person?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know someone came?”
Simi stared at her.
“Because they left something at my door.”
“What?”
Simi reached into her handbag.
For a moment, Temilade thought she was going to produce a document.
Instead, Simi placed a small folded piece of paper on the table.
Temilade looked at it.
“What is that?”
“I kept it.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid that one day someone would ask me what happened.”
Temilade looked at the folded paper.
“Can I see it?”
Simi did not answer immediately.
Then she pushed it across the table.
Temilade unfolded it carefully.
There were only five words.
STOP ASKING ABOUT THE PROPERTY.
No signature.
No date.
No name.
Temilade read it again.
Then looked at Simi.
“When did you receive this?”
Simi’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Three days after Samuel disappeared.”
Temilade felt the room shift around her.
She folded the paper again.
She did not know what it proved.
She did not know who had written it.
She did not know whether it connected to the man who followed Samuel.
But for the first time, she had something that was not merely a reference in an archive.
Something someone had physically left behind.
Evidence of a warning.
And perhaps a reason Simi had stayed silent for so long.
She looked at the woman across from her.
“What happened after you received it?”
Simi stared into her coffee.
“I stopped asking questions.”
Temilade nodded slowly.
“And now?”
Simi looked at her.
“Now I think someone else has started asking them.”
Temilade’s phone vibrated.
A message from Damilare.
Everything okay?
She looked at the screen.
Then back at Simi.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
But she wasn’t sure anymore.
Simi had agreed to meet.
She had brought a warning.
She had mentioned the second file.
And she had confirmed that someone had followed Samuel.
But she had not given them a name.
Not yet.
Temilade looked down at the folded paper.
A warning.
Three days after Samuel disappeared.
Someone had known enough to tell Simi to stop asking questions.
Someone had known about the property.
And someone had wanted the questions to end.
She opened her notebook.
Under the heading SIMI — MEETING, she wrote:
Simi confirmed the warning.
Original note retained.
Source unidentified.
She paused.
Then added:
Do not assume the writer was the same person who followed Samuel.
She underlined the sentence once.
The distinction mattered.
The note was evidence that someone had warned Simi.
It was not evidence of who had written it.
And it was certainly not proof that the writer was connected to Samuel’s disappearance.
Temilade closed the notebook.
For several seconds, she simply sat there.
The archive had given them records.
Simi had given them memory.
The paper on the table had given them something physical.
But none of them, by themselves, answered the larger question.
What had happened to Samuel after he left?
Temilade looked toward the café entrance.
The woman who had carried this secret for years was already gone.
Damilare was waiting outside somewhere nearby.
And somewhere in the archive, the second file remained missing.
The paper trail had just become something else.
Personal.
Physical.
And much harder to dismiss.
Temilade folded her notebook and stood.
She did not yet have an answer.
But she had something more useful.
A new piece of evidence.
And a reason to keep looking.