The drive back from Ikeja was a different kind of quiet. The silence in the car was no longer a symbol of their individual burdens but a shared space of strategy. They were no longer two separate victims; they were now a small, fragile alliance against a powerful enemy. Dayo, having unloaded five years of his torment, seemed lighter, but his hands still trembled with a quiet fear that he was just beginning to face. Ifeyinwa, for her part, felt a strange kind of calm. The echoes had given her a name, a location, and a purpose that went far beyond her own personal revenge. She was no longer just an ambitious architect with a cursed gift; she was a detective, and the city's ghosts were her informants.
"So, what now?" Dayo asked, breaking the silence. His voice was a low hum, a world away from the tremor of fear from just an hour before. "We have a name. Mrs. Adelaja. And her son. But where do we find them?"
Ifeyinwa's mind was already racing, sifting through the echoes she'd collected. "The old investigator," she said, more to herself than to him. "His echo… it was old. Faded. But it was strong. He spent a lot of time looking for answers." She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the echoes guide her. A new image, a new feeling came to her mind: the scent of old paper and leather, the quiet rustle of pages turning, the silent rows of books. "He wasn't in an office. He was in a library. A place of records." She opened her eyes. "He was looking for something that would connect the Omololus to the murder. A public record, something official. Something he could use to build a case."
"A library? In Lagos?" Dayo asked, his brow furrowed. "The public libraries here… they're not like what you see in the movies. The records are often incomplete. Or they've been sold for scraps."
"Not a public library," Ifeyinwa said, her voice filled with a new kind of certainty. "A private one. A research library. The kind of place where old, forgotten files go to die." She remembered a place her father had once taken her to as a child. A small, unassuming building tucked away in the shadows of a grand, modern bank in the heart of the city. A place that held the city's history, its triumphs, and its failures. It was a place for the silent and the forgotten, a perfect place to hide a secret. "I know where to look. I've been there before."
They drove toward the center of town. The city's famous traffic was beginning to thin out as the night deepened, and the roads were now a free-flowing river of headlights and tail lights. The air was thick with the scent of fried plantains and roasting corn, a fragrant tapestry of Lagos life that she had always taken for granted. Tonight, it felt different. It felt like a city of secrets, with every street corner and every building holding a forgotten story.
They arrived at the library. It was a small, two-story building tucked away behind a row of towering office blocks. It was dark, but a single, flickering light in the corner of the building suggested someone was still there. Ifeyinwa got out of the car. Dayo was hesitant. "Are you sure about this? It looks closed."
"Trust me," she said. She walked to the door and gave it a gentle push. It was unlocked. A bell above the door gave a faint jingle as they walked in. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust, a scent that felt like the past itself. The librarian, a small, elderly woman with a face like a wrinkled map of time, looked up from her desk. She wore a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck, and her eyes were warm and kind. "Can I help you, my dear?" she asked, her voice a soft, gentle whisper that seemed to echo in the silent space.
"We're looking for something," Ifeyinwa said. "Old records. About a man who died five years ago. A man who was a city councilman. His name was Mr. Adebayo Adelaja."
The librarian's face showed no emotion. She simply nodded and motioned for them to follow her. She led them to a small, secluded room in the back of the library. It was a room filled with old filing cabinets, their metal facades rusted with time. "The city's dead records," the librarian said, her voice a low hum. "The archives. Everything that happened, everything that was, is in these files. But it is not a place for the living. It is a place for ghosts."
Ifeyinwa felt a chill run down her spine. The echoes here were different from anywhere else. They were a jumbled cacophony of voices, a thousand stories vying for her attention. She closed her eyes and focused on the voice of the old investigator. She heard him saying, "The city's dead records... the archives... the key is in the past." He had been here. He had been looking for a record, a document, that would connect the Omololus to the murder. She felt his frustration, his desperation, his quiet resolve. The echoes were a roadmap. She knew where to look.
She walked to a row of filing cabinets and ran her hand over the metal. Her fingers stopped on a cabinet marked "A". She pulled it open, and the scent of old paper, of a forgotten past, filled the air. She began to go through the files, her hands moving with a purpose she had never felt before. Dayo, in the corner, watched her with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. He was watching her do something he had never imagined possible, something that felt like a superpower.
She found it. A small, unassuming file with the name "Adebayo Adelaja" on the cover. She opened it and began to read. It was a simple file, a few documents about his death, a few newspaper clippings about his life. But then she found it, a small, faded photograph. It was a photograph of Mr. Adelaja and a man who was clearly his son. The son looked so much like his father, a younger, more vibrant version of the man in the photograph. The photograph was dated two years ago, a few months after the murder. The photograph was taken outside a small art studio in Ikoyi. The man in the photograph was wearing a small pin on his lapel. It was the Apoo symbol. He was the one who had been in the car with his father. He was a witness.
"I found him," Ifeyinwa said, her voice a whisper of triumph. "The son. He's an artist. His name is Adebayo Jr. He was in the car with his father. He's the one who was with him that night. He's the one who witnessed the murder."
"He's the key to everything," Dayo said, his voice a low hum.
"He is," Ifeyinwa said. "And the book… his mother hid it. It's in his art studio. She hid it there to protect him. She wanted him to have it when the time was right." She looked at Dayo, a new kind of resolve in her eyes. "We have to find him. We have to find the book before they do."
Just then, the front door of the library opened, and two men in dark suits walked in. They were not from the police. They were not from the Omololus. They were from a different kind of organization. Their echoes were of a quiet kind of menace, a silent threat that filled the air. They were looking for something. They were looking for the same thing they were. The race was on.
Ifeyinwa grabbed the file and looked at Dayo. "We have to go. Now." They ran out of the library, leaving the two men to search the empty archives. As they drove away, Ifeyinwa looked in the rearview mirror. She could see the two men standing in the doorway, their faces masks of silent rage. She knew they were coming. The ghosts of the city were on their side, but the living were a much more dangerous enemy. The next step was clear. They had to find Adebayo Jr. They had to get to the art studio before the Omololus did. The future of their families depended on it.