A DEAD END
The fluorescent lights of the Lagos State Criminal Investigation Department flickered as Detective Jameson Thompson pushed through the glass doors of the station. The air smelled of paper, coffee, and exhaustion. Phones rang, officers argued quietly over desks, and keyboards clattered like rain on zinc roofs.
But Jameson wasn't listening to any of that. His mind was locked on one name.
Anna Akpos.
He walked straight into the conference room and dropped his file on the table with a sharp thud. The sound echoed, pulling his team out of their private thoughts.
"Alright," Jameson said, loosening his tie. "We're not guessing anymore. We're connecting dots."
The detectives gathered around him. Some looked hopeful. Others looked tired.
"So let me get this straight," Detective Sadiq said, flipping through the file. "Anna was secretly moving money… possibly blackmailing someone… and now a senator's name is floating around?"
Jameson nodded. "Exactly. Senator Tunde Martins is linked to a shell company receiving her funds. That alone doesn't make him guilty, but it makes him interesting."
Detective Boma folded her arms. "So what's the play?"
"We test his story," Jameson replied. "Every movement. Every witness. Every second of his alibi the night Anna vanished."
The room went quiet. Everyone understood what that meant—long hours, pressure, politics.
Jameson began assigning tasks.
Sadiq handled Martins' timeline.
Boma chased CCTV footage.
Kunle spoke to drivers and aides.
Two others reviewed Anna's phone history again, line by line.
The station slowly turned into a war room.
Hours passed. Lagos traffic roared outside. Night crept through the windows. Coffee cups piled up. Tempers grew thin.
By evening, Jameson stood over a board filled with notes and photos.
And nothing fit.
Senator Martins had been at a charity gala when Anna disappeared. Cameras showed him smiling, shaking hands, giving speeches. Witnesses placed him there the whole night. Phone pings matched the location. His convoy never moved.
Clean. Too clean.
Jameson sank into his chair, staring at the files like they had betrayed him.
Three days. No ransom. No body. No witnesses. No trail.
His phone vibrated.
Chief Okorie.
Jameson answered slowly.
"Jameson," the chief's tired voice said, "we need to talk."
Jameson already felt the weight coming. "Go ahead, sir."
"We're scaling back this investigation."
The words hit harder than a slap.
"What?" Jameson stood up. "Sir, we're close."
"Close to what?" the chief asked calmly. "You've got a senator with an alibi and no physical evidence. Resources are tight. We have robberies, kidnappings, murders piling up."
"So Anna Akpos just becomes a statistic?" Jameson snapped.
There was silence.
Then the chief sighed. "We don't even know if she's alive anymore, Jameson."
Anger burned in Jameson's chest. "You don't say that about a missing person!"
"Lower your voice," the chief warned gently. "Sometimes leadership means choosing which fires to fight."
Jameson clenched his jaw. "We can't give up on her."
"I'm not giving up," the chief replied. "I'm being realistic."
The call ended.
Jameson stood frozen, the station noise washing over him. Around him, his team worked, laughed weakly, complained—unaware that the case was dying quietly.
He walked into the chief's office without knocking.
"Sir," Jameson said, steady but firm, "I need one more shot."
The chief rubbed his temples. "Jameson…"
"What if Anna is alive and waiting for us?" Jameson said. "What if she trusted the police and we're about to abandon her?"
The chief studied his face. For a moment, the authority faded and concern showed.
"You're too emotionally involved," he said softly.
"Maybe," Jameson replied. "But emotion finds truth logic misses."
Silence hung between them.
Finally, the chief exhaled. "Go back to the Akpos residence. One last time. If nothing changes, the case goes cold."
Relief flickered in Jameson's eyes. "Thank you, sir."
The Akpos mansion glowed softly under the Lagos night sky. Security lights painted long shadows across marble walls.
Mrs. Akpos opened the door. Her eyes were swollen. Sleepless. Hope barely holding together.
"Detective Jameson…"
"Ma'am," Jameson said gently. "May I come in?"
Inside, Chief Akpos sat stiffly on the couch, business strength replaced by parental fear.
"Any news?" he asked.
Jameson shook his head. "Not yet. But sometimes memory hides clues. Has anything new come back to you?"
Mrs. Akpos hesitated, then slowly nodded.
"Anna wasn't herself before she disappeared," she whispered. "She paced. She whispered on the phone. She jumped at every sound."
Jameson leaned forward. "Did she say why?"
"No. She only said she was 'handling something.'"
Mrs. Akpos stood and walked to Anna's room. She returned holding a small folded paper.
"I found this under her pillow."
Jameson's heartbeat sharpened.
The note read:
Meet me at the old warehouse. Midnight. – J
His fingers tightened.
"Did Anna mention anyone with a 'J'?"
They both shook their heads.
"She kept receiving calls," Mrs. Akpos added quietly. "After each one, she looked afraid… like she was running from something invisible."
Jameson felt the puzzle shifting.
Back at the station, Jameson slammed the note onto the table.
"This changes everything."
The team leaned in.
"Old warehouse?" Boma asked.
Jameson nodded. "That's our ghost. And ghosts leave footprints."
They loaded up at dusk. Sirens low. Engines humming.
The warehouse stood abandoned at the edge of the city, iron doors rusted, windows like dead eyes.
Inside, dust floated through torchlight. Rats scurried. Wind whistled through broken sheets of metal.
They searched every corner. Upstairs. Downstairs. Hidden rooms.
Nothing.
No blood.
No phone.
No struggle.
Just silence.
Sadiq kicked the floor softly. "We're chasing air."
Jameson stared at the darkness, uneasy. "No. We're chasing something smart."
They left empty-handed.
Past midnight, Jameson returned to his desk alone. The station slept but his mind refused to.
Files. Photos. Anna's smile. Her graduation picture. Her eyes — bright, fearless.
Then the phone rang again.
The chief.
"Jameson… this is the end. I already warned you."
Jameson closed his eyes.
"We don't have proof, Jameson. And without proof, hope becomes a lie."
The call ended.
Jameson sat back, breathing slowly.
Seven days.
Seven days since Anna vanished into the Lagos night.
He imagined her somewhere—cold, scared, fighting to stay alive.
Then memory hit him.
High school.
Anna laughing by the staircase.
Her intelligence.
Her quiet fire.
He had promised himself he'd become great enough to stand beside her one day.
Now she was missing.
And he felt small.
Useless.
Jameson stared at her photo and whispered,
"Wherever you are… don't give up yet. I haven't."