I flung the cabin door open, my heart hammering, and dashed onto the verandah. The blinding flash of car headlights pierced through the trees. For a split second, I felt a spark of hope. Then, a burst of yellow flame blazed across the lawn—something hissed past my face, biting into the front door, sending a spray of splinters flying. The silence of the night shattered as gunfire thundered, and I threw myself back into cover.
I had made a fatal mistake—I’d forgotten about the second gunman, and he had nearly taken me out. Panic roared in my ears as I bolted down the narrow passage to the backroom, desperate for my gun.
The room was empty, and my stomach dropped. The sight made my nerves crawl. Ryan—he had recovered faster than I expected. He could be hiding somewhere inside, or worse, he'd gone out the window. With no time to think, I snatched my gun, jumped across the room, and plunged the room into darkness.
Carefully, inch by inch, I made my way back to the front door. Tires screeched. I heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up. The car doors slammed shut, and suddenly there were footsteps—heavy, quick, coming down the cinder path. The next thing I knew, two policemen, guns at the ready, were charging towards me.
Then—BANG!—from across the lawn behind the cabin, the flash and roar of gunfire lit up the night. The policemen scattered like startled deer, diving behind trees for cover. One of them fired at the cabin, and the sharp crack of shattering glass followed. A scream—a woman’s—cut through the chaos.
Lights flickered on in nearby cabins, illuminating the lawn like a makeshift stage. My gaze darted across the confusion, and that’s when I spotted him—a squat, thickset figure creeping towards the trees. Ryan.
With my heart pounding, I lifted my gun. I aimed and fired. Ryan bolted. He was fast, but the officer was faster. Before Ryan could reach the trees, one of the policemen fired—the shot rang true.
Ryan went down on one knee, fighting to get back up, but it was hopeless. He stumbled out into the open, the gun still clutched in his hand, and in one last desperate attempt, he fired. The muzzle flashed in the darkness. The policemen opened fire. Ryan staggered back, his gun slipping from his grip, and he collapsed, spread out like a discarded doll on the grass.
From the shadows, I saw the second gunman break into a desperate sprint, trying to make it to the cinder path. One of the policemen spun on his heel, his gun already snapping up, and fired. The gunman dropped. He rolled, twisted, tried to rise to his knees, but collapsed again, sprawling on the cinders, unmoving.
“You’ve got both of them now!” I called out, stepping cautiously onto the verandah, my gun hanging low at my side.
The two policemen approached, wary and slow, their guns still fixed on me. I could almost see the nervous twitch in their trigger fingers—they weren’t taking any chances.
“I’m Emeka,” I said, keeping my movements painfully slow, my voice calm, almost a whisper. These guys were on edge, and it struck me that they could be very, very trigger-happy.
“Drop that gun!” one of them barked.
Without hesitation, I bent down and placed my gun on the floor of the verandah, careful not to make any sudden moves.
“Alright,” the second officer said, stepping closer, “now identify yourself.”
I handed over my press card and driver’s license. He scrutinized them under the moonlight, his eyes flickering between the documents and my face.
“Alright, Mr. Emeka,” the policeman finally said, nodding. “Looks like we showed up at just the right time. Sergeant Bruce is sending another car—should be here any moment.”
I nodded, still trying to calm my frayed nerves. “Did you see a girl around here? She was with me.”
The officer shook his head, lips pursed. “Didn’t see anyone else. Just those two punks.”
I was about to respond when, from the corner of my eye, I caught movement—Ashley. She was emerging from the shadows, her steps slow and unsteady, her face pale and frightened but alive. Relief crashed over me like a tidal wave.
“There she is!” I said, my voice breaking. I ran towards her, my heart lighter, my fear dissipating like smoke in the morning breeze.
“Ashley!” I called, closing the distance between us. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and for the first time that night, I felt like maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be alright.
Before I could reach her, Ashley's knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the grass. My heart stopped for a moment, and I sprinted to her side. The two policemen caught up, and we all huddled over her. Panic struck me—was she shot? There wasn't a drop of blood, though. One of the officers leaned down, his fingers pressing against her neck.
“She'll be fine,” he said, looking up at me. “She just fainted.”
I let out a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. By now, people were spilling out from the cabins, whispering in tight clusters around the fallen gunmen. The shriek of sirens sliced through the night, announcing the arrival of two more squad cars, bouncing down the gravel drive-in.
“I’ll get her to my car,” I said, scooping Ashley up like she weighed nothing.
With the policemen flanking me, I carried her to the car park, where officers poured out of their vehicles, guns ready. A sergeant strode over, his gaze locking onto me.
“You’re Emeka, right?” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“That’s me,” I confirmed, my voice steady.
“The Captain wants you back at headquarters,” he said, his gaze shifting to Ashley. “Who’s the girl? Is she hurt?”
“No,” I replied. “She just fainted. She's part of the story. Are you gonna give me an escort, or do I make my own way there?”
I maneuvered Ashley into the Pontiac, her head leaning gently against my shoulder.
“I’ll send someone with you,” the sergeant said, signaling one of his men. He barked a few orders, then turned and headed down the cinder path, his boots crunching against the gravel.
It took just under an hour to reach headquarters. As we drove, Ashley slowly came to, blinking at me through dazed eyes. She looked rattled, every muscle tense, but I pulled her closer, whispering that everything would be okay. Her head nestled into the crook of my neck, and gradually, she relaxed, her body leaning heavily against mine.
Bruce was waiting when we rolled up outside the station. His eyes went wide when he saw me helping Ashley out of the car. He blinked twice, staring as if I were a ghost.
“The guy hiding under this mustache is your old friend Emeka,” I said, giving him a smirk.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, breaking into a grin. “You had me fooled for a second there. Looks like you’ve been having quite the adventure. Come on, the Captain’s just gotten here. I dragged him out of bed, and he’s madder than a bear with a boil.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked to Ashley, who clung to me, her eyes wide and scared. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask.
“Let’s head in,” I said, giving him a nod.
Together, we climbed the stairs leading to Police Captain Donald’s office, each step echoing in the empty hall. At the door, I turned to Bruce.
“While I talk to the Captain, can you look after Miss Robles?” I asked. “She’s been through a lot and needs some rest.”
“Sure thing,” Bruce said, offering Ashley a gentle smile. “You come with me, Miss. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Leaving them behind, I knocked sharply on the Captain’s door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response. Captain Donald was hunched over his desk, his face worn and weary, dark bags sagging beneath his eyes. The wall clock behind him read twenty minutes past three, and I realized just how much of a wreck I felt myself.
For a moment, he just stared at me, his eyes drilling into mine.
“Emeka, reporting in,” I said, my voice breaking the silence.
“You sure know how to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Captain Donald growled, his tone laced with irritation.
“Looks like it,” I replied, hooking a chair with my foot and dragging it closer before sinking down. “Captain Fitzgerald is on my tail, and I had to change my look just to keep moving freely. I’ve also brought a witness—Ashley Robles. She used to be Saul Bolton’s girlfriend. Have you had the chance to read my report?”
He gave a tired nod, rubbing a hand across his jaw.
“Let me catch you up to speed,” I said, leaning back in the chair. I launched into the story, detailing everything that had happened since I filed that report. Every twist, every chase, every gunshot. When I finally finished, I leaned forward, my eyes locked onto his.
“Miss Robles can testify that Saul Bolton and LaToya Young were thick as thieves,” I said. “And I can track down that private investigator, Thaddeus. He’ll prove Saul set LaToya up for Dajon Price. We've got the pieces, Captain—now we just need to put them together.”
The room went quiet, Captain Donald's eyes narrowing as he processed everything I'd just unloaded. It was all coming together, but we weren’t out of the woods yet—not by a long shot.
He took out a cigar, bit off the end, and gave me a sideways smirk.
"That won't do us much good," he said, shaking his head. "As long as he stays holed up in Alexandra, we can't touch him. I've checked out that gun you sent in. Stolen from a gun shop in Roland Park—eight years ago, no less. Could've belonged to anybody. No prints on it." He lit his cigar, puffed once, then shot me a loaded look. "What's the motive behind Quentin Powell's murder?"
I leaned back, shaking a cigarette loose from the pack. I lit it, the flame casting shadows across my face. "In my opinion? The motive behind all of these murders is sheer panic." My voice dropped as I continued, "Since LaToya disappeared, there have been five murders connected to her. Let's run through them in order: first, Lamar Hooke. He helped kidnap her. He was a lush, the type of guy who might start spilling secrets when he was drunk. He was dangerous, so they took him out—hit-and-run. Clean and simple." I paused for a drag, letting the suspense simmer. "Next up was Breonna Adams. A blackmailer. My bet? She picked up something juicy when she was in Hollywood and tried to cash in. They made sure she never had the chance. Then, fourteen months later—when everyone thought it had all blown over—Devon Weaver messed up. Told me himself that he knew LaToya. He was gone before I could put pressure on him." I blew out a plume of smoke, watching Captain Donald's expression grow darker. "Mr. Powell? He offered you information. When I first reached out, he didn't have much. But later? He called me back. Said he had a theory. Something he thought I'd want to hear. But someone beat me to him. And then there's his house help—the Mexican lady—probably saw something she shouldn't have. They silenced her too. It's all panic. Someone out there is desperately covering up a murder. And I think it's not LaToya's they're worried about. It's Anthony Graves' death that they're trying to bury." I leaned in, my voice a whisper. "Fifty million bucks is one hell of a motive. That's what Graves left to his wife."
Captain Donald ran his fingers through his hair, scowling as he listened.
"You think Saul Bolton and Mrs. Graves are behind this whole mess?" he asked, suspicion etched across his face.
I didn't flinch. "I'm certain of it," I said, exhaling a plume of smoke.
"But you're still guessing," he countered. "Where's the connection between Anthony Graves' murder and LaToya Young?"
"If I knew that, this case would already be closed," I shot back. "But there's definitely a connection—there has to be. Look at it this way: Saul Bolton dropped his old girlfriend for LaToya. But he kept it all hush-hush. Why? If Ashley Robles hadn't had LaToya followed, no one would even know Saul and LaToya were an item. Saul fingered LaToya to Dajon Price, then brought her to Baltimore where no one knew her, careful not to be seen. Dajon, Lamar Hooke, and Devon Weaver kidnapped her—and Dajon killed her. He went to great lengths to hide her body. Mrs. Graves knew LaToya. She must have. You should've seen her face when I showed her LaToya's photo. Mr. Powell employed LaToya as a model. I think he remembered something dangerous—something that put either Saul or Mrs. Graves at risk. Before he could spill it, he got silenced. There's a connection, Donald. We just need to find it."
"Yeah," Captain Donald muttered, begrudgingly impressed. "So how do we do it?"
"We're missing one vital clue," I said, rising from my chair. "Maybe Medgar will find it out in California. I've sent him there to trace Mrs. Graves' movements. I need him to find what Breonna Adams stumbled on. Me? I'm heading back to Alexandra. Saul's anxious to silence Ashley Robles—and he failed. He and Mrs. Graves might start to panic, and I need to be there when they do."
Captain Donald's face hardened, his eyes narrowing. "You're sticking your neck out, Emeka," he said, his voice serious. "If Captain Fitzgerald decides to arrest you for murder, there's nothing I can do to help."
I gave him a shrug. "I'll take my chances. The key to this case is in Alexandra. Until we crack it, don't let Ashley out of your sight. She's a crucial witness—we can't afford to lose her."
"I keep telling you," Donald snapped, frustration seeping into his voice, "we have no authority in Alexandra. Saul and Mrs. Graves could get away even if we have proof. Commissioner Lawson isn't going to put a filthy-rich lady like Mrs. Graves on trial."
I smiled—a slow, dangerous smile. "Oh, he'll put her on trial if I can prove she killed her husband. You might not be able to do much, but I can. We'll publish the whole story in the Baltimore Star—statements, photos, everything. That'll force Commissioner Lawson's hand. He'll have no choice but to put her on trial."
Captain Donald's eyes widened, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Now that’s an idea," he said, nodding. "But you'll need proof—proof that'll stand up to scrutiny."
I turned toward the door, tossing him one last look. "Oh, I'll get it, alright. And when I do, my proof won't just stand up—it'll leap right at Lawson and bite him where it hurts."
Captain Donald chuckled, shaking his head as I walked out. He might not have been entirely convinced, but he couldn't deny the thrill of the chase.
And I—I was ready to turn Alexandra upside down to make sure the
truth came out.
END OF EPISODE 37
P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 38, which will
be published here next Sunday.
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