THE MISSING PAGE

CHAPTER 3: THE MISSING PAGE

The following morning, Naledi woke up before her alarm.

She hadn’t slept properly.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the photograph. Zinhle’s face. The mysterious messages. And Thabo standing in their bedroom, demanding to know where the envelope was.

She turned her head.

Thabo’s side of the bed was empty.

A faint sound of running water came from the bathroom.

For a moment, she considered pretending everything was normal. Getting dressed, making breakfast and kissing her husband goodbye as she had done countless mornings before.

But something inside her had changed.

She was no longer interested in pretending.

She quietly reached for her phone and opened the anonymous message thread.

There was no new message.

She typed:

I need proof. Not just messages.

She waited.

Nothing.

A few minutes later, Thabo emerged from the bathroom, adjusting his shirt cuffs.

“You’re awake early,” he remarked.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He glanced at her.

“You’re still thinking about yesterday?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

He ignored the question and reached for his watch.

“I have a meeting this morning. I might be late.”

Naledi nodded.

“That’s fine.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

She almost pulled away.

Almost.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” he said.

“What exactly?”

“Leave the past alone.”

He walked out before she could respond.

Naledi listened to his footsteps disappear down the staircase.

Then she got out of bed.

For the first time in seven years, she was going to look at the investigation into her sister’s death herself.

Thabo’s study was at the far end of the house.

It was a room he rarely allowed anyone to enter without permission. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, and expensive artwork hung above a large executive desk.

Naledi had never considered the room suspicious.

Until now.

She tried the handle.

Unlocked.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

His desk was immaculate. Documents arranged in neat piles, pens aligned beside a leather notebook.

She began searching the drawers.

Business contracts. Property documents. Bank statements.

Nothing unusual.

Then she noticed a small metal cabinet beneath the bookshelf.

It was locked.

Naledi stared at it for a moment before remembering something.

Several years earlier, Thabo had given her a spare key to the study cabinet. He had told her to keep it somewhere safe in case he ever needed documents while travelling.

She hurried upstairs and returned with the small key ring.

The third key fitted.

Inside were several files, old photographs and a collection of documents tied together with a black ribbon.

One file immediately caught her attention.

ZINHLE MOKOENA — FATAL INCIDENT INVESTIGATION.

Her hands went cold.

She pulled it out and placed it on the desk.

The first few pages contained official-looking documents, statements and medical information.

She read through them slowly.

The date.

The location.

The details of the incident.

Everything appeared familiar.

Then she reached the investigation report.

Page one.

Page two.

Page three.

She turned another page.

Five.

Six.

Eight.

Naledi stopped.

There was no page seven.

She counted again.

The page had been deliberately removed.

Her heart began pounding.

Why would her husband keep an investigation file about her sister in his private cabinet?

And why was an entire page missing?

She searched through the remaining documents, hoping to find a copy.

Instead, she discovered a handwritten note folded between two statements.

It was dated three weeks after Zinhle’s funeral.

The handwriting was unfamiliar.

It read:

The identification procedure was not properly completed. I strongly advise that the family be informed before this matter is closed.

Naledi read it again.

And again.

The identification procedure?

She remembered the funeral clearly. She remembered asking to see her sister one last time.

But she had been told it wasn’t advisable.

Thabo had explained that Zinhle’s injuries made viewing the body difficult.

He had held her while she cried.

He had told her to remember her sister as she was in life.

She had listened.

She had trusted him.

A sudden vibration startled her.

Her phone.

An unknown number.

Did you find it?

Naledi stared at the screen.

She typed:

Who are you?

The reply arrived almost instantly.

Page seven. That’s the page they removed.

Her throat tightened.

Who removed it?

There was a pause.

Then:

Your husband wasn’t the only person at the hospital that night.

Naledi slowly lowered the phone.

The hospital?

She had been told that Zinhle died before reaching medical care.

Her fingers trembled as she typed another message.

What hospital?

The reply was brief.

Ask Detective Maseko.

Naledi froze.

Detective Maseko.

She remembered the name.

He had been the investigating officer assigned to Zinhle’s case. He had visited their family twice, asked questions and promised to follow up.

Then, without warning, the investigation had gone quiet.

She hadn’t heard from him in years.

Naledi searched through the old documents until she found his business card.

It was yellowed at the edges.

She dialled the number.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

“Hello?”

“Detective Maseko?”

A brief silence.

“Who is speaking?”

“My name is Naledi Mokoena. You investigated my sister’s death seven years ago.”

Another silence.

This one was longer.

“Mrs Mokoena,” he finally said. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I need to speak to you.”

“About what?”

“Zinhle.”

She heard him take a breath.

“That case was closed a long time ago.”

“Then you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

“Mrs Mokoena, I think it’s best we leave things where they are.”

Naledi tightened her grip on the phone.

“I found a copy of the investigation report. Page seven is missing. I also found a note questioning the identification procedure.”

The line went completely silent.

“Detective?”

“Where did you find that document?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters very much.”

“Why?”

He lowered his voice.

“Because I personally made sure that report was never supposed to leave my office.”

Naledi felt the blood drain from her face.

“Are you telling me my husband stole an official investigation report?”

“I’m telling you that you need to be careful about who you trust.”

“Detective, what happened to my sister?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then he said something that made her grip the edge of the desk.

“Mrs Mokoena, I need you to listen carefully. Your sister’s case was never as straightforward as you were led to believe.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“I can’t discuss this over the telephone.”

“Why not?”

“Because some of the people involved are still very powerful.”

Naledi closed her eyes.

“Can you meet me?”

He hesitated.

“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. I’ll send you an address.”

“Thank you.”

“And Mrs Mokoena?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell your husband about this conversation.”

The call ended.

Naledi stood motionless.

She looked down at the file again.

There was something else she hadn’t noticed.

A small photograph had been tucked into the back cover.

She pulled it out.

It showed the entrance of a hospital.

On the back was a date.

The night Zinhle supposedly died.

And beneath it, in handwriting she recognised immediately, were the words:

Thabo Mokoena — 22:47.

Naledi stared at the photograph.

Her husband had been at the hospital that night.

He had told her he was out of the country.

She remembered the conversation vividly. She remembered crying on the telephone while he promised to return as soon as he could.

He had said he was in London.

But the photograph placed him in Pretoria.

Seven years of memories suddenly felt like a carefully constructed lie.

Her phone vibrated again.

This time, it wasn’t an unknown number.

It was Thabo.

THABO: Are you home?

Naledi stared at the message.

Another one followed.

THABO: I need you to answer me.

She didn’t reply.

Then a final message appeared.

THABO: I know you’ve been in my study.

Naledi slowly turned towards the study door.

It was still closed.

But she was no longer certain she was alone in the house.

And somewhere, seven years of carefully buried secrets were beginning to surface.

END OF CHAPTER 3