Chapter 9 - THE HUSBAND WHO CHOSE THE WRONG SIDEI had spent the past week wondering whether my husband was dangerous.
Now I was beginning to understand something more complicated.
He might have been a man who loved me and still made choices that put me in danger.
Those two things could be true at once.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
Detective Nkosi took the maintenance document into evidence.
She also requested access to the company's electronic approval system.
Sphandla agreed to cooperate.
Mara made certain that the cooperation happened through official channels rather than private promises.
I was grateful.
Promises had become difficult for me to trust.
That evening, I returned to my apartment.
Mara had arranged for the locks to be changed and for someone independent to check the security of the building.
I had clean sheets.
My own clothes.
A refrigerator that contained three bottles of water, two lemons, and a suspicious-looking jar of pickles.
Apparently, the old me had been too busy saving the world to buy groceries.
I ordered soup and sat on the couch beneath the yellow blanket.
For the first time since waking from the accident, I was alone in a place I had chosen.
It felt strange.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
I kept expecting Sphandla to appear and ask whether I needed anything.
Part of me missed him.
That was the most humiliating part.
After all the lies, I still missed the man who had kissed me in the kitchen.
I missed the way he smiled when I argued about snacks.
I missed waking up beside someone who made the world feel manageable.
But I was starting to understand the difference between missing someone and needing to return to them.
My phone rang.
It was Sphandla.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello.”
“Did you get home safely?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Have you eaten?”
I looked at the soup on the coffee table.
“Yes, Jason.”
“Good.”
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, he spoke.
“I've been thinking about what you said.”
“Which part?”
“That I lost you before the accident.”
I closed my eyes.
“Okay.”
“You were right.”
I hadn't expected that.
He continued.
“When you left, I told myself you were being stubborn. I thought you were putting strangers ahead of our marriage.”
My throat tightened.
“Were they strangers?”
“No.”
His voice cracked.
“They were people who trusted us.”
I stared at the wall.
“I don't remember those arguments.”
“I do.”
He paused.
“And I remember something else.”
“What?”
“You asked me whether I'd still defend the company if it had ruined my mother's home.”
I leaned forward.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I told you it wasn't the same situation.”
I laughed sadly.
“Of course you did.”
“I was wrong.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the question that had been waiting beneath every other question.
“Why did you bring me back to your house after the accident?”
He exhaled.
“Because I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Losing you permanently.”
I looked down at my ring.
“You thought if I couldn't remember leaving you, you could pretend I never had.”
“Yes.”
The honesty nearly broke me.
I had wanted him to admit it.
Now that he had, I didn't know what to do with the pain.
“You took advantage of my memory loss.”
He didn't argue.
“Yes.”
Tears slid down my face.
“You were supposed to be the person who protected me.”
“I know.”
“Instead, you protected what you wanted.”
His voice grew quiet.
“I know that too.”
I wiped my cheeks.
“Do you understand why I can't come back?”
“Yes.”
“Then please stop asking.”
Another long silence followed.
“Ndoni?”
“Yes?”
“I'll cooperate with the investigation. Whatever they need.”
“Do it because it's right, Jason. Not because you think it'll bring me home.”
“I understand.”
After we hung up, I sat motionless for a long time.
There was no satisfaction in hearing him admit his mistakes.
Only grief.
For the marriage I couldn't remember.
For the woman who had walked away.
For the woman I was becoming.
Later that night, Bhejane called.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need you to look at something.”
He sent me a short video.
The footage was dark and grainy.
A road appeared beneath streetlights.
I recognized the black SUV from the police photographs.
My vehicle.
Another car followed behind it.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“From a dashcam.”
“Whose dashcam?”
“Mine.”
I sat upright.
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked me to follow at a distance. You were afraid somebody might try to stop you before you reached the police.”
My pulse quickened.
The footage showed my SUV approaching an intersection.
Then a larger vehicle appeared behind it.
It accelerated.
My car swerved.
The video jolted as Bhejane braked.
A moment later, my SUV struck the barrier.
I gasped.
“Stop.”
The video froze.
My hands were shaking.
“Bhejane, why didn't you tell the police you were there?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“The next morning, someone broke into my house. They took my laptop and threatened my mother.”
I pressed a hand against my chest.
“So you hid?”
“I thought I could recover the footage first.”
“Is this the original?”
“A backup.”
I stared at the screen.
“Then give it to Detective Nkosi.”
“I will.”
He hesitated.
“But there's something you need to see before I do.”
Another video arrived.
This one was taken a few minutes before the crash.
My SUV was parked beside a gas station.
I stepped out.
Even in the grainy footage, I recognized myself.
I was arguing with someone beside the passenger door.
A man.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Wearing a familiar dark jacket.
I leaned closer.
Then the man turned toward the camera.
My stomach dropped.
It was Sphandla.
May you like
I stared at Bhejane's message.
JASON TOLD THE POLICE HE WAS AT HOME THAT NIGHT. SO WHY WAS HE THE LAST PERSON TO SPEAK TO YOU BEFORE THE CRASH?
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