Sandy Muiru was lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. She had hardly slept since Officer Michael and Rita left the house. The thought of strangers breaking into her home troubled her, and she couldn't imagine the fear her mother must have felt.

She questioned herself whether it was right of her not to mention the car that had tailed her in the middle of the night. She suspected it could be related to the burglary, but the timing didn't add up. The car followed her at around 7:30 in the evening, and the burglary didn't happen until midnight. Sandy knew that Officer Michael wouldn't investigate the attempted burglary further as he seemed to be covering a routine check. The second reason Sandy didn't mention the car was that she was hoping to catch the driver and get some answers all on her own. She already had something to work with, the car number plates.

She decided to call Cynthia.

A few hours later, Sandy met with her. They walked quietly along Fedha Street, hands tucked inside the pockets of their hoodies. Cynthia's hoodie was black. The front had the words, 'Am a school dropout."

"It's a shame, you know, what happened at your house," Cynthia broke the silence.

"How did you know?" Sandy asked.

"You forgot this is a small neighborhood and I only live a couple of blocks away from your house."

When Sandy gave her a long, incredulous look, Cynthia sighed.

"Okay. Am taking breakfast at the table when my mother suddenly receives a call. She answers, says a lot of uh-huh, mm, yes, Tricia? Then suddenly, her mouth hangs open. Wide-open. Have you ever seen a crocodile busk in the sun? I swear I even see a little bug fly in there. She swallows unknowingly when she says into the phone, 'Ohh, poor Tricia, so sad.' When she ends the call, she narrates how your place was tossed up. The drama queen even has tears in her eyes. For a moment, I am sitting there, wondering who attacked you, woman?"

Sandy chuckled, "You told her, right?"

"About the bug? Yeah, definitely. I was like, hey mum, I think a bug got stuck in your throat, there, there, feel that bulge. Drink some more tea."

Sandy laughed so hard that she felt her insides hurt. "You are awful."

After a while, Cynthia asked, "How's your mother doing?"

Sandy wondered how best to answer this question. She nibbled her chapped lips, "She's not so good."

"PTSD."

"What?"

"PTSD, you know, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A cousin of mine had it. One day, he witnesses a stray bullet ram into a five-year-old boy's head, the next day he is chipping his nails out at a psychiatric facility," Cynthia said.

When Cynthia realized what she had said, she quickly added, "No. No. I am not saying—"

Sandy interrupted, "I know. How's he? Your cousin?"

"He died."

"Oh. Am sorry."

"Naah, it's cool. Anyways, what are we doing walking down here in this cold weather?"

"Remember that car?" Sandy asked.

"The one that was following you yesterday?"

"Yes, that one. Well, we are paying Margaret's shop a little visit."

Cynthia stared at her. Confused. "Why?"

"Cause it's the only shop around here

Sandy wanted to be sure about the number plate.

Cynthia shook her head. "No. You are
no police. Leave this to them."

"Well, in my defence, I am majoring in criminal science. I might as well put it into good use."

Margaret Ashoka was a short, lean old lady in her late sixties. From what Sandy had heard, Margaret used to be a primary school teacher in Kibera. She had never once been married, and neither had children. Upon her retirement, Margaret used her pension fund to start a mini-mart shop along Fedha Street.

"Oh, Sandy. It's been long since I last saw you. How are you holding up?" Margaret beamed at Sandy as soon as she saw her. Her voice reminded Sandy of an old rusty thing. She was seated behind the counter. There were no customers in the shop.

Sandy offered a warm smile, "Am doing great, Margaret." She leaned her elbows against the counter and sneaked a glance at the screen below the counter, then looked back at Margaret.

Margaret had a frown on her face. "Cynthia, mmhh, you around?"

"Yeah, still around. Never been better, actually," Cynthia was smirking.

When Cynthia was out of earshot, Margaret whispered to Sandy, "You still hanging around with this kiddo? What does she have on you?"

"I heard that loud and clear," Cynthia shouted from across a shelf packed with snacks.

They all laughed.

Margaret finally asked, "Something I can help you with?"

Sandy said, "I was hoping I could look through your CCTV. If that's alright by you."

"Sure thing, what happened?"

Later that day, when Tricia was busy in the kitchen preparing dinner, Sandy quietly crept into her father's study. The door had not been locked. Sandy figured her mother had just been there.

She walked towards the large oak desk cradling the middle, sat on the chair, and opened the second drawer. She fumbled around until she found her father's diary. At the back of the diary was a list of contacts.

She pored over the contacts, then took out her phone and called a number listed to a certain Officer Daniel Haji.

She introduced herself as Lauren Ng'endo, saying a friend of hers recommended him to her. She then proceeded to say that she'd just forgotten her bag on a curb and she needed help tracking the driver down. The bag contained her laptop and other important documents.

"Why don't you call the driver, madam?" Officer Daniel said into the phone. Sandy heard him sigh. She imagined him rolling his eyes out of frustration and boredom.

"I would but am afraid I don't have his contacts. The only thing I remember is the plate number."

"Okay, tell me, I ran it down for you," came his response.

"KBA 414S. A black saloon car."

"Just a second," he said, then went quiet. "Car is registered to Preston Arina, physical address..mmhh..Donholm plot 205, house number 30. Wait, this is a police officer's car. Young lady, what was this call about again?"

Sandy quickly ended the call.

A police officer.

That was not what she had expected to hear from the call.