Uche Nwadinobi rubbed his temples as he scrolled through the old photos of his wife—Miriam, as he knew her. Or had known her.
Disappeared.
No fight. No farewell. Not even a message.
She had packed only her Bible and left her wedding ring in the sink.
Two weeks had passed, and Uche still hadn't reported her missing. Why? Because part of him already knew:
She was running from something.
Something that wasn't him.
And she'd done it before.
He remembered the odd things—how she flinched when he touched her neck unexpectedly. How she never let him take photos of her. How she always looked behind her, even on the most peaceful days.
And then that one night—months ago—when she cried in her sleep and called out a name he'd never heard before.
> "Chukwuma… no, please—don't—"
That name haunted him.
So, instead of reporting her to the police, Uche did something else.
He called Yinka, his childhood friend, now a tech-savvy private investigator in Lagos.
> "I need to find my wife," Uche said.
"You mean the woman you married without introducing to any of your people?" Yinka replied, his voice heavy with suspicion.
"Sure. Let's find your mystery wife."