The smell of roasted corn filled the dusty air as the sun dipped behind the hills of Enugu. Amaka—or rather Miriam, as she now called herself—tightened the scarf on her head and clutched her handbag like a soldier gripping a rifle. Her heels echoed through the bus park as she moved fast, keeping her head low.
She had mastered the art of disappearing. This was her third identity in five years. No phones. No friends. No slip-ups.
Yet today… she felt watched.
She rented a quiet room in a compound where everyone minded their business. The landlord was old and deaf. Perfect. She had paid for six months in cash.
But someone had followed her from the pharmacy.
She was sure of it.
Miriam locked her door, placed the bolt, and drew the curtain. Her body relaxed only slightly as she exhaled.
Then she saw it.
On her pillow—
A note.
She hadn't left any notes.
It read, in scrawled red ink:
> "You can run again, but you can't outrun memory."
Her legs buckled.
She grabbed the paper and tore it to shreds, trying to keep herself from screaming. How did they find her again? Who? The police? Her ex-husband? The syndicate?
She fell asleep that night with a knife under her pillow and shoes by the door, ready to run.
She was always ready to run.
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