My Stepmother's Betrayal

The days that followed the funeral blurred together. Grief hung heavy in the air, but beneath it simmered something darker—suspicion.

I couldn't shake the image of Mirabel's forced smile… or the chilling message scrawled behind that torn photograph:

"If anything happens to me, don't trust her."

I needed answers.

I poured over Mom's journal again, this time with more focus. Her writing was frantic in the last entries—names mentioned in passing: Dr. Patel, Rachel, Alex. I didn't recognise any of them, but they felt important.

I started with Dr. Patel. A quick search revealed he wasn't any ordinary doctor. He ran a small private clinic on the outskirts of town — a toxicology specialist Mom had secretly visited when she began suspecting she was being poisoned.

The hospital reports said cancer, but her gut told her otherwise — that she was being made sick, slowly and methodically, by people she trusted.

A chill settled in my bones. Why hadn't she told me? Maybe she'd wanted to protect me.

My fingers trembled as I drafted the message:

> Hi Dr. Patel, my name is Nina Orakwue. My mother, Josephine Orakwue, came to see you privately before she died. I need to know what she told you. Please, it's urgent.

I pressed send and hoped for the best.

Next, I remembered Mom's old address book. It was still in her desk, buried beneath stacks of forgotten documents. My heart pounded as I flipped through the pages and found Rachel and Alex, both with phone numbers. I tried Rachel's—no answer. Alex's line was dead.

Frustrated, I slammed the book shut—then froze. A tiny folded note slipped out from between the pages. Mom's handwriting.

"Meet Rachel at the coffee shop on 5th Street. 2 PM. Be careful."

That was all I needed.

Just as I stood there, there was a knock. Mirabel.

She entered, carrying a tray of jollof rice and chicken. "Hi sweetheart," she said with her usual honeyed voice. "You haven't eaten all day."

I forced a smile. "Thanks."

She placed the tray down and perched on the edge of the sofa. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

Her eyes searched mine for a little too long. "Good. We're family now, Nina. We take care of each other."

Something about the way she said that made my skin crawl.

"Do you know anyone named Rachel or Alex?" I asked casually.

She blinked, just for a second. But I saw it—a flicker of recognition. Then came the smooth recovery. "No, not that I can recall. Your mom knew a lot of people."

Liar.

As soon as she left, I texted my best friend.

Hey. Need your help. Coffee shop on 5th Street? Urgent.

Sophia: Be there by 2 PM. What's going on?

I'll explain everything.

At the café, the scent of coffee and baked goods clashed with the tension in my chest. Sophia sat by the window, waving me over.

"You look like crap," she said, hugging me.

"Thanks," I smirked weakly. "I feel worse."

Over lattes, I spilt everything—the journal, the photo, Mirabel's strange behaviour, and the note.

"Damn," Sophia whispered, flipping through the journal pages. "This is serious. If your mom was investigating something…"

"She was," I said. "And I think Mirabel and maybe even Dad are involved."

Sophia sat up straight. "Then we dig."

Mom's journal said we can meet Racheal here at 2pm, I hope she shows up today as usual.

We spent hours looking into Mirabel online. What we found painted a new picture—one not of a grieving friend, but of a woman who had been involved in several shady business dealings. Two ex-business partners had sued her for fraud, and both cases were quietly settled out of court.

"She's dangerous," Sophia muttered.

The next day, we tracked Rachel's address to a quiet apartment complex. My hands trembled as I knocked on her door.

A woman in her mid-thirties opened it, cautiously. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Nina Orakwue," I said. "Josephine Orakwue was my mother. We found your name in her journal."

Rachel's face went pale. "Come in."

We sat on an old couch in her small living room. She offered tea. I declined.

"Your mother and I… we were close," Rachel said. "She was investigating someone. Mirabel. Your mom believed she was hiding something—maybe connected to her illness, or to your dad."

My blood ran cold.

"Do you think Mirabel had something to do with my mom's death?" I asked.

Rachel hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes. Your mother was digging too deep. And Mirabel… she has ways of making people disappear."

We were at the coffee shop yesterday, waiting for you to show up as Mom said in her Journal, but you didn't. Why? Nina asked.

"Yes. Rechel nodded. That was our usual spot to discuss things, but Mirabel got to find out and sent me a very crucial warning, so I stopped.

As Sophia and I walked away from the apartment, the sky had begun to dim. The air felt heavier. Something wasn't right.

Sophia gripped my arm. "Don't panic. But we're being followed."

I turned slightly. A sleek black car rolled slowly behind us, tinted windows, no license plate visible.

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Let's turn into that alley."

We ducked off the main road, breathing fast. The car paused at the corner, then turned and disappeared.

Sophia pulled out her phone. "We need a plan. Like, now."

I nodded, voice shaking. "We're getting close to something. And someone doesn't want us to."

That night, I received a message from an unknown number.

> "Stop digging, Nina. You won't like what you find."

I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice.

And just like that, I knew—we weren't safe anymore.