Sarah lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling with a hollow, vacant expression. Her eyes were swollen and puffy from the sleepless night that stretched endlessly behind her. She hadn't slept a wink, her mind consumed by a gnawing dread that refused to let go. The possibility that her loving husband—John—could be involved in something so dark, so insidious, had burrowed into her heart and soul like a parasite. Even if the worst wasn't true, the mere thought that he might be betraying her, cheating on her, was tearing her apart from the inside.
She had spent the entire night lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, turning over every detail in her mind, trying to make sense of it all. What should she do? How could she confront him, the man she had trusted for two decades, about the fears that were now her constant companions? She couldn't let herself hesitate. If he was involved in something dangerous, something criminal, there was no room for doubt. But how does a woman confront her own husband when everything inside her is screaming that the truth will destroy everything she knows?
As the first rays of morning light filtered through the blinds, Sarah swung her legs over the edge of the bed and forced herself to stand. Her body felt sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and uncertainty. She dragged herself to the bathroom, the cool tiles beneath her feet grounding her, if only for a moment. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto her face, rubbing her skin hard, as if she could scrub away the doubt, the fear, the betrayal.
When she finally lifted her head and looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her. Her curly afro hair, usually lively and framing her face with confidence, was disheveled and wild, obscuring her tired, red-rimmed eyes. Her face, worn and darkened by sleepless nights and too many hours of work, looked hollow, almost ghostly. The exhaustion had seeped into her very bones, and yet, beneath it all, there was an intensity, a fierceness that made her look more intimidating than ever. It was the look of a woman who was preparing for battle, even if that battle was against the man she loved.
She pulled herself away from the mirror and grabbed her iron. Each movement was precise, almost mechanical, as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress. It was a ritual, a way to regain control, even if everything else in her life was spiraling out of her grasp. She slipped into the dress, its sharp lines and dark fabric making her feel armored, protected. She reached up to gather her hair into a tight bun, a symbol of her professionalism, her control. But just as her fingers were about to secure it, she hesitated.
She looked at herself again. Something in her eyes had changed—resolve, clarity. She let her hair fall back down, the wild curls framing her face freely. If she was going to face the truth, to confront whatever it was that John had hidden from her, she wasn't going to do it with restraint. She would face this as herself—unfiltered, unapologetic.
She slid her black-framed glasses onto her face, grabbed her keys from the table, and locked the apartment door behind her. Every step was deliberate, every action slow, as if she were performing for an unseen audience. Maybe she was. In her mind, she imagined John watching her, sensing her readiness, her willingness to sever the ties of twenty years if they had been built on lies. She would not hesitate. If her marriage, her life, had been compromised, she would tear it down, brick by brick, no matter how much it hurt.
She got into her car, rolling the keys between her fingers for a moment before starting the engine. The hum of the vehicle beneath her feet felt like the beginning of something—the calm before the storm. As she pulled out of the parking lot, her foot pressed firmly on the pedal, each turn of the wheel sharp, precise. She was no longer drifting through her life in a fog of doubt; she was focused, ready.
When she arrived at the station, she pushed through the doors with a sense of purpose. Her colleagues glanced at her, sensing the tension that radiated off her in waves. She didn't need to say anything for them to know something was wrong, something big. Sarah made her way to Maya's desk, her eyes hard, her voice steady.
"Maya, I need all the transaction records on this number," she said, handing over John's contact details with no hesitation. "And trace the vehicle records for his car. I want the call history on this phone number, too."
Maya's fingers froze over her keyboard as she looked up at Sarah with wide eyes. "Ms. Sarah Blake... you're sure?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, but definitely ready to combat. "He's your husband."
Sarah didn't flinch. Her voice was cold, measured. "I know, Maya. And you know it too. We don't have time to second-guess this. It's a dangerous situation, and if John is involved, we need to act now."
There was no room for hesitation now. If John had crossed the line, if he was a danger to her and to everyone else, she would do what needed to be done. Even if it meant breaking her own heart in the process.
Maya's trance lasted only a second in aww of Sarah, before she nodded, her hands quickly moving to carry out Sarah's requests. But Sarah wasn't finished. "And make sure no news gets out without my approval. Lock down security. I don't want him—or anyone aiding him—slipping through the cracks. We're going to catch him in his own game."
Maya's fingers flew across the keyboard, her face set with determination. "Understood, ma'am."
"And Maya," Sarah added, her voice softening for just a moment, "I need you to check on Vivian. Find out how she's doing. Does she have a lawyer yet? Ask her for that and if she doesn't have anyone then let me know, then we can decide to have someone for her from the city center"
Maya glanced up at her, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "I'll get right on it."
Sarah turned and walked back to her table. She felt the weight of her decisions pressing down on her, but she didn't falter.
She sat at her desk and pulled out her laptop, her fingers hovering over the keys as she composed an email to the higher authorities, detailing the recent events. She laid it all out, the evidence that was beginning to mount, the need for discretion. As she typed, she felt a pang of grief, a quiet mourning for the life she had once known, the life she had believed in. but right now she didn't mention a thing about John. Maybe she still wanted to prove herself wrong and that maybe it was her own suspicion only.