Death was screaming in these walls.
It was so loud but no one seemed to feel or hear anything.
The hospital grounds were quieter than usual that night. A weak moon hung behind a gauze of clouds, casting the compound in a dim, smothering glow. It was the kind of stillness that made shadows stretch too far, the kind of silence where guilt couldn't hide.
Annah Mwende moved like smoke through the narrow corridor between the staff quarters and the maintenance building. Her footsteps were soft, deliberate, the rubber soles of her shoes making no sound against the paved path. She wore black,hood up, hands gloved. Not because she was afraid of being seen.
Mr. Mbithi never checked the cameras. And tonight, she wasn't hiding.
Not really.
She had chosen this night carefully. It had rained earlier, so the air was heavy and moist, the ground damp. The smell of wet soil and hibiscus lingered in the air.
A perfect night for death.
Annah knew Mr. Mbithi's routine as intimately as she once knew Lucy's laugh. Every night during his graveyard shift, just after 1:30 a.m., he took a break behind the old water tank. He'd smoke two, sometimes three cigarettes, while scrolling through his phone and muttering to himself about "ungrateful nurses" and "stubborn interns." She'd observed him for weeks, sometimes from the shadows, sometimes from a hospital window, blending in like another grieving relative. But tonight wasn't for watching.
Tonight was for justice.
She turned the corner and saw him—leaning against the tank, puffing away, the ember of his cigarette glowing like a single red eye in the dark. His uniform shirt was half unbuttoned, and his belt sagged under the weight of his bloated belly.He had really let himself go since he was fired.
"Eh?" he said as she approached. His eyes narrowed.
"Who's there?"
"Just me," Annah replied softly, stepping into the weak light. "You don't remember me, do you?"
He squinted, tilting his head, uncertain.
She held out a stainless steel flask. "I brought you something warm. It's a cold night."
He grinned, yellow teeth flashing. "Ah! Someone finally appreciates the watchman, eh?"
He took the flask without hesitation, unscrewed the cap, and took a generous gulp.
"Strong," he coughed, then laughed. "But good. Tea?"
"With a little kick," she replied. "You always looked like you preferred it that way."
He sat on an overturned bucket, stretching his legs and taking another sip. "You a nurse?"
"No."
"Relative?"
"Yes. I'm Lucy Mumo's sister."
The name hit him like a slap. His grin faltered. The flask hovered in the air, forgotten.
He cleared his throat. "Ah. Sorry about that. That was… a very unfortunate case."
Annah crouched in front of him, her voice calm, almost soothing. "Tell me, Mr. Mbithi. Do you remember what happened the night Lucy disappeared?"
His eyes darted to the tank behind her.
"It was long ago. Things happen. Girls sneak out. You know how they are."
"No," she said, head tilted. "But I know you saw her. Cameras were off that night, conveniently. But someone saw Lucy being dragged toward that white van. You were standing right here."
He shifted uncomfortably. "You don't understand how things work in this country. Sometimes it's better not to get involved."
"You watched her scream," she said flatly. "You watched her fight. And you turned away."
Mbithi stood quickly, suddenly wary. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but—"
The sedative finally kicked in. His legs buckled, and he staggered, grabbing for the water tank. She caught him, guiding him gently to the ground like a caregiver easing a patient into bed.
"Shhh," she whispered. "It's okay. Just relax."
He tried to speak, but his tongue had gone heavy, his limbs slow. Panic flared in his eyes as he realized he couldn't move properly. She dragged him toward the tank's service hatch, already unbolted and half-open.
"I always wondered how Lucy felt," she said as she wrestled his weight toward the edge. "Choked. Helpless. Like the world was holding her down and no one cared."
He groaned, a wet, guttural sound, eyes wide with terror.
"But unlike you," she continued, "I'll make sure your final moments are remembered."
She gripped the back of his neck and shoved his head under the water.
He struggled, weakly at first, then with frantic jerks of his arms. But the sedative had done its work. His body was too slow, his lungs too fast.
Bubbles rose to the surface, fast and desperate.
She held him there, kneeling, pressing down with controlled strength, her jaw tight, eyes unblinking.
Images flickered in her mind: Lucy's hospital bed, the coroner's doctored report, her mother's sobs at the funeral. The quiet shrugs from staff who had seen but said nothing.
Annah's grip never wavered.
Forty seconds.
Fifty.
His movements became less coordinated, more spastic. The water rippled with his death.
A minute and a half in, he stopped struggling.
She kept him there for thirty more seconds.
Then slowly, she let go.
His body floated face-down, half-submerged, his limbs lifeless.
She rose, breathing deeply, the scent of rusted water and old cement mixing with the sharp bite of adrenaline in her veins. She pulled a folded paper from her pocket and pinned it to his uniform, pressing the safety pin through the soaked fabric.
In neat red ink, it read:
CONFESSION ONE: Watching is worse than doing.
Then she unscrewed the flask, poured the remainder of the tea into the soil, and slipped back into the shadows.
The next morning, the hospital buzzed with sirens and whispers. Staff clustered near the maintenance shed, murmuring. A few nurses cried.
Detective Stella Njoroge stood over the body, her gloves damp, her face unreadable.
"Drowning?" she asked, kneeling.
"Looks like it," the officer beside her said. "But here's the part you won't like."
He held up the note.
She read it twice.
"Confession One," she murmured.
Her eyes scanned the ground—no prints, no sign of forced entry. Whoever did this had been methodical, patient, and purposeful.It reminded her of a case.
Call it a hunch but the detective liked to trust her gut.
She was never wrong.
"Start pulling all the records from the past five years," she said. "Every staff complaint. Every cover-up."
Anyone connected to Lucy Mumo Mwende."
Lucy Mumo's case.The one case she had been unable to solve in five years.
The wind shifted, and the trees rustled like dry whispers.
Somewhere not far, Annah sat on a rooftop, legs crossed, sipping coffee from a paper cup. Her eyes were calm. Below her, the world moved on, blind and busy.
One down.
Four to go.