Chapter 4 Escalation and Pressure

The morning sun crawled over Lagos like a reluctant witness, staining the lagoon gold while the city stirred into motion. For Detective Amara Cole, dawn was nothing more than another hour on the clock, another reminder that while ordinary people drank their first cups of tea, killers were already at work.

She stood at the window of the precinct conference room, clutching a paper cup of bitter coffee. Across the table, Chief Okon’s voice cut through the hum of the squad room beyond, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.

“You’re telling me we have another victim, Cole, and the only lead is a hysterical witness muttering fairy tales about veils and chanting?”

Amara set the cup down before she crushed it. “Lila Brooks isn’t hysterical. She survived something none of us can imagine. Her testimony is fragmented, yes, but it lines up with the ritual patterns at every site.”

The chief’s eyes narrowed. “Patterns don’t solve cases. Evidence does. And evidence right now says we’re chasing shadows while the press is tearing us apart. Three bodies, one survivor, no suspects. Do you know what the papers are calling this?”

Marcus answered from his seat, voice flat. “The Crimson Veil murders.”

The chief jabbed a finger toward him. “Exactly. And unless you want politicians breathing down my neck, you’ll deliver results. Fast. Or this case goes federal.”

The words landed like a blow. Amara forced herself not to react, though the thought of handing the case to bureaucrats made her stomach twist. She straightened her shoulders. “We’re closer than it looks. Give me time.”

“You’ve got forty-eight hours before I start making calls,” the chief said, rising from his chair. His expression softened briefly almost pity, almost warning before he strode out.

The silence left behind was heavy. Marcus leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s not wrong, Amara. We’ve got scraps, not leads. And you” He stopped himself, but the look he gave her carried the rest.

“And I what?” she snapped.

He exhaled slowly. “You’re making this personal. I saw your face at the bridge. Something about that necklace. You didn’t tell him what you found, did you?”

Amara’s pulse spiked. She fought to steady her tone. “It wasn’t relevant.”

“Not relevant?” His voice was low, controlled. “We’re chasing a cult leaving ritualistic corpses around the city, and you find a personal connection at a site, and you think keeping it from your partner helps the case?”

The words cut, because they were true. She turned away, jaw tight. “Drop it, Marcus. We need to focus on the living, not my ghosts.”

But even as she said it, the necklace burned in her memory.

Hours later, another call shattered what little calm she had left.

The body was found near an abandoned textile factory, sprawled across concrete like a discarded doll. The same geometric circle was carved into the floor, candles melted into grotesque stalactites of wax. The difference this time was in the presentation arms arranged in an unnatural pose, as though the victim had been made into a symbol.

Amara crouched beside the body, gloves snapping tight over her hands. Male, late thirties. Mouth stitched shut crudely with fishing wire, eyes wide open in a permanent stare. A faint sigil was drawn across his forehead in what looked like dried blood.

Jordan hovered nearby, tablet in hand. He was paler than usual, his usual sardonic tone absent. “They’re evolving, Detective. This isn’t just ritual repetition it’s escalation. Each site is becoming more elaborate. Like they’re… announcing themselves.”

Amara examined the sigil, tracing its lines with her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Jordan hesitated, then tapped his screen. An overlay appeared, comparing photos from each crime scene. The circles, the markings, the arrangement of objects they weren’t random. Together, they formed parts of something larger.

“A map?” Marcus asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Not exactly. More like a sequence. Each site adds a piece. If we align them geographically…” Jordan pinched the image, spreading the markers across the city map. “It’s converging toward the lagoon.”

Amara felt a chill creep along her spine. The lagoon, where Lila had been found. Where Ada’s necklace had surfaced.

“Detective,” Jordan added, lowering his voice, “there’s more. While processing the scene, I picked up digital noise. Someone’s piggybacking on our radio frequency. They’re listening. Maybe even watching.”

Marcus cursed under his breath. “You’re saying the cult knows our movements?”

Jordan nodded grimly. “At least sometimes. They’re ahead of us.”

Amara clenched her fists. The sense of being manipulated, her every step anticipated, sent fury crawling through her veins.

That evening, back at her apartment, Amara tried to find stillness. She failed. The city outside her window glowed with restless neon, horns and shouts rising from the street. On the table before her lay the evidence bag with Ada’s necklace.

She poured herself a glass of whiskey she didn’t intend to finish, just to feel something burn that wasn’t grief.

Memories came unbidden: Ada’s laughter, her stubborn streak, the night she vanished without goodbye. The endless months of searching, of false leads and dead ends, of hope curdling into resignation. And now this. The necklace at a crime scene, a cult chanting about veils and blood.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Jordan.

“You should see this.”

He attached a file. Video footage, grainy, timestamped just two nights earlier. It showed a figure in a black robe, red paint streaked down the mask like tears. The figure raised its hands before the ritual circle and spoke words that made Amara’s skin crawl:

“She comes. The blood ties will bind her. The veil will open.”

The video cut abruptly.

Amara’s hand shook as she set the phone down. Whoever was behind this didn’t just know about her. They were waiting for her.

The next morning, the press swarmed the precinct steps. Reporters thrust microphones into her face, cameras flashing.

“Detective Cole, is it true there’s a serial cult operating in Lagos?”

“Why has the police failed to produce a suspect?”

“Sources say you have a personal connection to one of the crime scenes care to comment?”

The last question froze her in place. She shoved through, ignoring the barrage, but the seed of doubt was already planted. If the media had caught wind of Ada, then the cult wasn’t just ahead of them they were feeding the flames.

Inside, Marcus waited with arms crossed. “They’re coming for you, Amara. Not just the cult. The press, the politicians. Everyone. You can’t fight them all alone.”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t have a choice. They made it personal.”

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Personal cases destroy detectives. Don’t let them destroy you.”

But as Amara walked past him, she knew destruction wasn’t the danger.

The danger was that she’d burn the city down to ashes before letting the Crimson Veil take another piece of her life.