THE MAN WHO KNEW

CHAPTER 2: THE MAN WHO KNEW

Naledi stood frozen in the middle of her bedroom, the phone pressed against her ear.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Outside, the Pretoria evening was settling into darkness. The distant sound of passing cars drifted through the slightly open balcony doors, but inside the house, everything felt strangely still.

“Thabo,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “How do you know about the envelope?”

Another silence.

“I asked you a question,” she continued. “How do you know someone sent me something?”

“I don’t have time for this, Naledi. Just listen to me.”

She looked down at the photograph lying on the bedside table.

It showed a woman standing outside a building. The photograph was old, slightly faded, but the face was unmistakable.

Zinhle.

Her sister.

The woman Naledi had buried in her heart seven years ago.

“I need you to tell me what’s happening,” Naledi demanded.

“Where are you right now?”

“At home. Where else would I be?”

“Are you alone?”

Naledi frowned.

“Why does that matter?”

“Just answer me.”

“Yes, Thabo. I’m alone.”

“Good. Don’t speak to anyone about what you’ve received. Not your friends, not your family. Nobody.”

A cold feeling travelled down her spine.

“What exactly are you afraid I’ll tell them?”

He exhaled sharply.

“Naledi, please. I’m coming home.”

The call ended.

She stared at her phone.

For the first time in their marriage, she wondered whether her husband was frightened of something she might discover.

Or whether he was frightened of what she might do once she discovered it.

She picked up the photograph again.

On the back, written in neat black handwriting, were five words:

SHE DIDN’T DIE THAT NIGHT.

Naledi’s fingers began to tremble.

Seven years.

Seven years of grief, unanswered questions, sleepless nights and birthdays spent visiting a grave.

She remembered the funeral. The white flowers. The endless condolences. The closed coffin she had been told not to question because of the condition of the body.

She remembered Thabo holding her hand throughout the entire ceremony.

He had been there when she cried.

He had been there when she collapsed.

He had even been the one who convinced her to stop asking questions when the investigation went nowhere.

And now, somehow, he knew about the envelope before she had told him.

She walked towards the dressing table and opened the bottom drawer, searching for something she had not touched in years.

An old photograph album.

She flipped through the pages until she found a picture of herself and Zinhle standing together outside their childhood home.

They were laughing.

Zinhle had her arm around Naledi’s shoulders, her head tilted towards her younger sister.

Naledi smiled sadly.

“Where are you, sisi?” she whispered.

A sudden sound from downstairs made her jump.

The front door.

Thabo was home.

She quickly slipped the photograph into the drawer and closed the album.

His footsteps echoed along the hallway.

“Naledi?”

“I’m upstairs.”

He appeared in the doorway moments later, still wearing his charcoal-grey business suit. His tie was loose, and his expression was unusually serious.

His eyes immediately searched the room.

“Where is it?”

Naledi folded her arms.

“Where is what?”

“The envelope.”

She studied him.

It was a small thing, but she noticed it. He hadn’t asked whether she was alright. He hadn’t asked who had sent it.

He wanted the envelope.

“Why are you so interested in something you supposedly know nothing about?”

Thabo loosened his watch and placed it on the dressing table.

“You’re making this difficult.”

“No, Thabo. You’re making this difficult. You called me and told me not to open something that you somehow already knew about.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“Did you see what was inside?”

Naledi said nothing.

“Did you see the photograph?”

Her heart began beating faster.

“Why? Does it look familiar to you?”

His jaw tightened.

For a brief moment, something passed across his face.

Recognition.

Then it disappeared.

“Naledi, some things are better left buried.”

She almost laughed.

“Buried? Is that what you call it? My sister is dead, Thabo. What exactly is there left to bury?”

He stepped closer.

“Listen to me carefully. Whoever sent that photograph is trying to manipulate you.”

“Then why are you afraid of it?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Look at me and say that again.”

He looked away.

And that was when Naledi understood something.

Her husband was lying.

She had lived with this man for years. She knew how he spoke when he was angry, how he smiled when he was pretending, and how he avoided her eyes when he wanted to hide something.

Tonight, he was doing all three.

“Give me the envelope,” he said.

“No.”

“Naledi.”

“I said no.”

For the first time, her husband looked at her as though he didn’t recognise the woman standing before him.

She walked past him and headed towards the bathroom.

“I need a shower.”

“Don’t make any decisions tonight,” he called after her.

She stopped at the doorway.

“Funny,” she said quietly. “You’ve made enough decisions for both of us.”

She closed the bathroom door.

A few minutes later, while the shower ran, Naledi sat on the closed toilet seat and stared at her phone.

There was a new message.

Unknown number.

Her breath caught.

You shouldn’t trust the man sleeping beside you.

Before she could process the words, another message arrived.

Ask Thabo what happened to the original investigation report.

Naledi read it twice.

Then a third time.

Her hands felt cold.

She opened the message thread and typed a reply.

Who is this?

The response came almost immediately.

Someone who knows what your husband did.

She stared at the screen.

Another message appeared.

And Naledi?

She swallowed.

The grave you visit every year may not belong to your sister.

The phone slipped slightly in her hand.

Outside the bathroom, she heard the bedroom door open.

Then Thabo’s voice.

“Naledi? Who are you messaging?”

She quickly locked her phone.

“Nobody.”

There was a pause.

Then the sound of footsteps approaching the bathroom door.

“Naledi, open the door.”

She looked at the messages again.

For seven years, she had believed she was grieving her sister.

But what if she had been grieving a lie?

And what if the man she had shared her bed with for all those years knew exactly where Zinhle was?

For the first time in her life, Naledi was afraid of going to sleep beside her own husband.

END OF CHAPTER 2