The photo lay face-up on the table like it had breath in it. Like it was watching her, waiting for her to scream.
But Sandra couldn't.
Not yet.
She was seated alone in the back room of the house in Kanyanya, the one that always smelled of old newspapers and soap. The red envelope was still in her hand. The photo—a clear, unedited shot—showed her exiting a building three years ago. Next to her was the man she once believed had died long before her first period.
Her father.
David Namatovu.
Still alive.
Still wearing the same quiet look she remembered from childhood.
And still, somehow, near.
A note was paper-clipped behind the photo. It had no name, no logo, no fingerprints. Only a line of words written in black pen:
> "You can lie to everyone else, Sandra. But blood doesn't forget."
Her fingers trembled.
Her heart refused to listen to logic.
How could he be alive?
Why would her mother lie?
She stood up slowly.
Walked into the corridor.
And for the first time in years… she knocked on her own mother's bedroom door like a stranger.
James Mugeni wasn't used to waiting on people.
Not in meetings.
Not in contracts.
And certainly not in matters of the heart.
But today, he waited.
He stood on his private balcony in Kololo, untouched coffee beside him, the city below glowing with evening lights, and his phone silent.
He had expected Sandra to call him the moment she got home.
After all, the photo was meant to shake her.
And it had.
He had seen the look in her eyes after she opened the envelope. The way her body had gone rigid. The way her breath hitched before she looked around—searching for whoever might be watching.
He had felt it from across the distance between them.
She was scared.
And for the first time since his father died, James realized that someone else's fear had become his burden to carry.
He picked up his phone.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
> "Tell me what's wrong."
Sent.
Then stared at the screen.
Waiting.
But no reply came.
In Kanyanya, Sandra sat across from her mother in the kitchen.
The silence between them was the kind that grew teeth.
Her mother was peeling matooke, but her hands had slowed. She hadn't looked up since Sandra entered.
"Mum," Sandra said softly, placing the photo on the table. "Who took this?"
The peeler slipped from her mother's hand.
She looked at the photo.
And didn't pretend not to know.
"Where did you get this?" she asked.
"I don't know. It was left for me. At the rooftop parking. Someone taped it to the windshield."
Her mother sighed, picked up the peeler again, and this time didn't move.
"You told me he died," Sandra whispered.
"He did. To me."
"No." Sandra's voice broke. "You said he died in Gulu. You said they couldn't find the body."
Her mother's eyes welled up. "Because it was easier than saying he walked away from all of us."
Sandra stood. Her legs felt weak.
"He left?"
Her mother nodded once.
"He left when Junior was a baby. He took your school fees and ran. With a woman who owned a betting kiosk in Namirembe. I never saw him again. Until that day."
She pointed at the photo.
"That day, he came back. He said he wanted to make things right. He begged me to let him speak to you."
"And you agreed?" Sandra asked, voice breaking.
"I didn't know what else to do," her mother whispered. "I thought… maybe it would help you. Maybe you needed to see him to understand what men are capable of."
Sandra laughed bitterly.
"Well done. It worked."
She grabbed the photo, turned to leave.
Her mother stood quickly. "Sandra—!"
But Sandra didn't stop.
Because in that moment, she realized—
The lie hadn't been about protecting her.
It had been about hiding shame.
And now, someone had weaponized it.
James was in his car, already halfway to Kanyanya, when Sandra called.
He picked up without greeting.
"I know," she said simply.
His voice dropped. "How bad is it?"
"My mother lied. My father is alive. He ran from us. Now someone's trying to use it."
James exhaled. "I'll find out who."
"No."
"Sandra—"
"No," she repeated. "This is mine to handle."
James didn't argue.
But his fingers tightened around the wheel.
Immy arrived home later that night, humming to herself.
Her perfume filled the hallway.
She found Sandra seated on the floor, papers scattered around her.
"Eh, what's this now?" Immy asked.
Sandra didn't look up. "Nothing."
"Why do you look like you fought a ghost?"
"I did."
Immy knelt beside her. Picked up a photo. Froze.
"This is your dad."
Sandra said nothing.
"Is this real?" Immy whispered.
Sandra finally met her eyes. "Did you know?"
"No! I swear! I thought he died just like you said."
Sandra studied her cousin.
Wanted to believe her.
Chose to believe her.
For now.
Back at J&M, Victor was reviewing a different set of photos.
Ones of Immy.
From Pearl Lounge.
From their second dinner.
From her entering his apartment, laughing.
He scrolled through them slowly.
Then deleted them all.
"She'll break," he muttered.
He poured a drink.
And smiled.
The next morning, Sandra stepped into James's office unannounced.
He didn't blink.
She dropped a folder on his desk.
Inside: Everything she knew about her father.
Letters. His phone number. Even an old business card.
"I want you to know what they'll use," she said. "Before they do."
James stood.
Walked around the desk.
Stood in front of her.
"You don't have to give me this."
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because I need someone on my side who knows the worst already."
James reached forward.
Held her hand.
Just for a second.
And whispered, "Then I'm on your side. No matter what they say."
Later that night, another envelope appeared.
Same handwriting.
Same tone.
This time, it said:
> "Next time, we won't just send photos. We'll send names."
And below that:
A name Sandra hadn't heard since she was thirteen.
A name that made her legs buckle.
Because it wasn't just a threat.
It was a promise.
Of destruction.
And someone knew everything.