The week bled slowly into itself.
Kamsi began documenting everything. Every conversation. Every look. Every discrepancy in Adaora's file. She wasn't sure why—maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was the voice in her phone, still haunting her inbox.
"She lied."
She hadn't deleted it. Couldn't. It felt like a thread she was supposed to follow, no matter how fragile or frayed.
But even more unsettling was what Chuka had said: that Adaora had asked for her by name.
That couldn't be coincidence.
Kamsi was a quiet doctor, the kind who didn't entertain popularity, who preferred long shifts to long conversations. She'd transferred to Rosehill Hospital only eight months ago, and had intentionally kept her head down.
So how did Adaora know her?
And why did she want her?
"Doctor Kamsi."
She looked up from her desk. It was the hospital's psychiatric liaison, Dr. Yawson — a blunt, always-uninvited man with a tie too loud for his own silence.
"You requested a behavioral review for one of your patients?"
"I did. Adaora Nwankwo. Room 405."
Yawson frowned as he flipped through a file he clearly hadn't read.
"She's presenting as stable. What's the concern?"
"Possible pseudocyesis. Maybe more."
"Based on?"
Kamsi leaned back. "A miscarriage she swears happened in October, her husband says November. Beta-hCG levels don't match her reported gestation. Ultrasound inconsistencies. And she's... selective with the truth."
Yawson shrugged. "That's not rare. Grief and obsession can mimic delusion."
Kamsi's voice dropped. "It's not just delusion I'm worried about. It's intent."
He raised an eyebrow.
"She's not just obsessed with pregnancy," Kamsi said. "She's performing it. She knows the symptoms, the hormones, the emotional arc. And she's weaving everyone into it."
"You think she's manipulating the system?"
"I think she's manipulating me."
That evening, Kamsi walked into Room 405 and paused.
The lighting was dim. Adaora sat by the window, wrapped in her robe, humming to herself.
"I've adjusted your prescriptions," Kamsi said softly. "And we'll be doing another scan tomorrow."
Adaora smiled faintly. "Still trying to find what's not there?"
"I'm trying to find what's real."
Adaora turned, her eyes gleaming.
"Reality is personal, Doctor. Just like pain. Just like love."
That word again.
Kamsi stepped closer. "What are you really here for?"
Adaora's smile didn't falter. "The same thing as you."
Kamsi stilled. "And what's that?"
Adaora's voice dipped to a whisper. "Closure."
After her shift, Kamsi sat in her car longer than usual, staring at nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
Blocked Number.
She answered.
Nothing. Just breath.
Then:"You treated her sister. Lagos. Three years ago."
Kamsi's blood froze.
The voice hung there like smoke.
"You don't remember... but she does."
The line went dead.
That night, she didn't sleep.
Not because of the voice. Not even because of Adaora.
But because of a memory.
Three years ago.A woman. Twenty-seven.Collapsed at a roadside pharmacy.Ectopic pregnancy.Arrived at the hospital unconscious.Kamsi had fought to keep her alive, but the rupture was too severe.She died on the table.Her name… her name was…
Kamsi sat up, heart racing.
Her name was Amara.
She pulled out Adaora's file.
Full name: Adaora Amara Nwankwo.
No.
No, not Amara. That couldn't be…
Unless Amara wasn't her first name.
Unless—
Her pulse quickened. She scanned her email inbox, then her archived case logs.
There it was.
Amara Nwankwo.Emergency patient.No next of kin listed.Only one emergency contact had answered that night… a female voice, who never showed up.
The sister.
And now she was here.
In Room 405.Wearing a fake pregnancy like a mask.Staring Kamsi down.Whispering about love.Whispering about closure.
The week bled slowly into itself.
Kamsi began documenting everything. Every conversation. Every look. Every discrepancy in Adaora's file. She wasn't sure why—maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was the voice in her phone, still haunting her inbox.
"She lied."
She hadn't deleted the voicemail. It felt like a thread she was supposed to follow, no matter how frayed. But what disturbed her more was what Chuka had said last: that Adaora had asked for her specifically.
That couldn't be coincidence.
Kamsi was a quiet doctor, the kind who didn't entertain popularity, who preferred long shifts to long conversations. She had no social media, no public profile. She had transferred to Rosehill only eight months ago and kept her head down deliberately.
So how did Adaora know her?
And why did she want her?
"Doctor Kamsi."
She looked up from her desk. It was the hospital's psychiatric liaison, Dr. Yawson — a blunt man with the type of tie that clashed with every corridor.
"You requested a behavioral review for one of your patients?"
"I did. Adaora Nwankwo, Room 405."
Yawson frowned. "She's lucid. Calm. Cooperative. What's the concern?"
Kamsi leaned back. "Possible pseudocyesis. Maybe more. Her hormone levels don't match her reported gestation, and her ultrasound reports contradict themselves."
Yawson shrugged. "That's not rare. People lie. Grief does strange things."
"She's not confused," Kamsi said. "She's consistent in her lies. Too consistent. I think she's rehearsed them."
There was a long pause. Then Yawson raised a brow.
"You think she's manipulating the system?"
"I think she's manipulating me."
That evening, Kamsi entered Room 405 with fresh test forms.
Adaora sat by the window, humming faintly, as if she didn't have a care in the world.
"I adjusted your prescriptions," Kamsi said softly. "We'll be doing another scan tomorrow."
Adaora didn't turn. "Still trying to find what's not there?"
"I'm trying to find what's real."
Adaora's voice was silky. "Reality is just a story with enough people agreeing on the plot."
Kamsi stepped closer. "I need honesty from you, Adaora. If you're hurting, if you're afraid, I want to help."
Adaora turned now. Her face was pale in the evening light.
"What if the lie is the only thing keeping me alive?"
Later, in the parking lot, Chuka found her again.
He looked worse than the day before. His eyes sunken, his hands jittery.
"I've tried to get her help," he said, voice strained. "Therapy. Faith homes. Even hypnosis. Nothing works. She builds a new lie every time. And now... she's started drawing you into it."
Kamsi's brows furrowed. "Why me?"
"I thought you'd remember her sister."
Kamsi blinked. "I don't."
"You treated her. Three years ago. She died. Tubal rupture."
Kamsi's mouth went dry. "I've had many patients like that…"
Chuka nodded. "But not many whose bodies were claimed by no one. Adaora was the emergency contact. But she came hours after burial. And she never cried. She just... stared."
That night, Kamsi didn't sleep.
She searched through her archived hospital logs. Eventually, she found it.
Amara Nwankwo. Age 27. Died of ruptured ectopic pregnancy. Admitted unconscious. No family present. No final words. Just a quiet body in a public ward.
The emergency contact listed?
A. Nwankwo.
No first name.
The next morning, Adaora was dressed before rounds.
Kamsi noticed the detail. The fresh makeup. The arranged bed. The perfume.
Adaora was preparing for something.
Or someone.
"You look rested," Kamsi said.
"I dreamt about her last night," Adaora replied calmly. "She was wearing white."
"Who?"
"My sister. Amara."
Kamsi froze.
Adaora smiled. "You see, Doctor, you do remember. Your face just told me."
In the corridor, Kamsi leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
There it was. Confirmation.
The voice on the phone. The inconsistencies. The obsession with her. It was all connected.
And it had nothing to do with pregnancy.
This was about revenge.
When she returned to her office, there was a note under her keyboard.
Room 405 has requested an ultrasound. Patient insists she's 16 weeks. Bleeding started 3AM.
Bleeding?
There was no chart update. No nurse alert. No vitals taken.
And yet Adaora had requested the scan herself.
Kamsi grabbed her stethoscope and rushed to the room.
But the bed was empty.
Sheets folded. IV removed. Robe gone.
Kamsi ran to the radiology wing, heart thudding.
Adaora was there, lying calmly on the scanning bed. A junior radiographer stood beside her, confused.
"She said she had a standing order," he whispered. "That you signed off."
"I didn't."
Kamsi stepped forward. "Adaora, what are you doing?"
Adaora turned her head slowly.
"Isn't this what you wanted? Proof?"
Kamsi stared at her.
"There's nothing to see, is there?" she asked quietly.
Adaora's eyes gleamed.
"No. But sometimes... absence is its own evidence."