A pattern of silence

Detective Stella Njoroge lit her third cigarette of the morning without realizing the second was still burning in the ashtray.

Three murders in a few weeks.

No signs of forced entry. No clear motive. All victims with clean reputations...or so it seemed.

And with quiet ties to one girl.

She exhaled smoke and stared at the photo tacked to the case board.

Kevin Langat – deceased.

Strangled. Found dumped in his house. Faint Ligature marks on the neck. No defensive wounds.

A clean kill.

A calculated one.

Her fingers moved to the second photo.

Pastor John – deceased.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest. At least, that was the preliminary report. But the forensics team flagged something odd—traces of chloroform on the handkerchief near his body. No real struggle. No sign of trauma.

Also clean. Also calculated.

The photos were joined by a third.

Mr Mbithi– poisoned and drowned. Also no real struggle noted.

Her eyes moved to another photo

Lucy Mumo-dead for five years.Assulted and sexually harassed.No known person was arrested and the case went quiet.

Because the name that had started threading all of them together was the one that had resurfaced after the Mbithi case.

Annah Mwende.

A former medical student. Soft-spoken. Polite. No criminal record. No official red flags. But the more Stella dug, the more she found fractures.

Kevin Langat had been her former workmate. Rumors of a bad history between them were not known. No specifics—just whispers.

Pastor John? A family friend. A spiritual mentor to Annah's mother. Present throughout after Lucy's death. Reportedly advised the family to stop the investigation.

And Lucy?

Stella didn't know the whole story yet. But she was starting to see a shape in the fog.

She turned toward her junior officer, Constable Mboya, who was scrolling through statements.

"Run the phone records again," she ordered. "I want to know if Mwende contacted either Kevin or John before their deaths. Use both her legal number and look for burner usage in her vicinity."

Mboya nodded.

Stella paced.

It didn't sit right how quiet the killings were. No struggle. No panic. Whoever did it was calm. Skilled. Unemotional.

Or completely overwhelmed and cold enough to fake composure.

She opened Annah's transcript again. High grades. Some absences during the year Lucy died. Counseling sessions noted. One therapist in particular stood out.

Dr. Peter Kariuki.

She tapped her pen against his name.

"Get me an appointment with this psychologist," she told Mboya. "Say we're investigating patient data tampering. Just get us in the door."

Mboya raised an eyebrow. "Do we have grounds?"

"Not yet. But I've got instinct. And that's legal enough for me until proven otherwise."

By the afternoon, Stella was back in Mumbuni, visiting Pastor John's compound.

The house was sealed. Yellow tape still fluttered in the wind like a warning.

She walked through the living room, scanning the scene again.

Bible open. Candle nearly dead. No signs of a break-in.

Too perfect.

Her eyes settled on the floral couch. Something had been disturbed ,minor drag marks in the carpet, as if someone had been laid down gently.

The medical examiner's report said heart failure, possibly stress-induced. But what preacher dies quietly with a note folded in their palm?

The note had no fingerprints.

The message:

"A shepherd who lets wolves feast on his flock is worse than the wolf. –A.M."

Confession two

A confession.

That had turned her stomach.

She opened her case notebook and scribbled:

CONFESSION TWO?—Is this personal? Symbolic? Serial?

The same handwriting had been found near Mr Mbithi's body , stuck to his uniform.

"She was the lamb. You laughed while she cried. You drank while she bled. Confession two."

Stella reread it until her jaw clenched.

This wasn't random. This wasn't revenge.

This was a ritual.

That evening, she drove to Annah's mother's house in Machakos.

Agnes Mwende greeted her politely at the gate. Wore a headwrap. Held a rosary. Her eyes were tired ,haunted.

"She's not here," Agnes said before Stella could even ask.

"I know," Stella said. "But I'm here about Lucy. And your daughter's connection to the men who recently died."

The woman's face hardened. "My daughter has suffered enough."

"I'm sure she has," Stella said gently. "But if she knew anything ? If she was in danger? I need your help."

Agnes's lips pressed together.

"I prayed for answers. None came. The preacher told me to stop looking."

"Pastor John?"

She nodded slowly. "He said justice belongs to God."

"And you believed him?"

"I wanted to. But my heart said otherwise."

She looked out over the dry garden.

"Annah changed after Lucy died. She became quiet. Then cold. Then... something else. I don't know who she is now."

"She's angry," Stella offered.

"She's hurting," the mother said. "But hurt people don't always heal. Some of them burn everything just to feel warm."

Back at her apartment that night, Stella opened a new file on her laptop.

She titled it: Project Confession.

Under suspects, she wrote only one name: Annah Mwende.

But she couldn't ignore the other presence looming in the case.

Dr. Kariuki.

If Annah was unraveling, he might be the one thread that tugged it all loose.

The next morning, Stella met with him.

His office was pristine, clinical, untouched by the chaos she usually waded through.

She sat across from him, legs crossed, hands folded.

"I'm investigating some recent deaths. I believe both victims had connections to your former patients."

He nodded, calm.

"Annah Mwende?"

"Yes," he said. "She saw me after Lucy died. She was... fragile."

"Would you call her dangerous?"

He paused. "No. But she was grieving. Deeply."

"Did she ever mention harming anyone?"

"She spoke in metaphors. About rot. About wolves in sheep's clothing. It could have been symbolic."

"She's tied to the scenes, Doctor. She left notes. Signed them. Confessions."

Kariuki's face twitched slightly.

"I didn't know about the notes."

"Do you know where she is now?"

"No."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you think she's capable of murder?"

He looked away.

And didn't answer.

That was all Stella needed.

Later, in her car, she called Mboya.

"Track Annah. Use every camera, every financial record. She's spiraling. And I think she's planning something bigger."

"Do we bring her in?"

"Not yet," Stella said. "If we move too soon, we lose her. But I want eyes on her 24/7."

She hung up and drove toward Nairobi's city center, feeling something she hadn't in months:

Panic.

Because this wasn't just a murderer.

This was someone who believed every death meant something.

And that made them unstoppable.