Eight

"Why are you back so early?" Grandma asked me sternly as I marched into the house. 

I had closed up work for the day because I was restless as curiosity was eating me raw. 

"We have got a problem," I said coldly, my fingers clenching on the file in my hand.

She inclined her head in askance and sat up from her chair. I sat on the sofa opposite her in the study and leaned on my thighs.

"Mr. Spencer is withdrawing his shares," I announced, my senses attuned to her every move. 

She remained unwavering. "What does he want?" 

"A reinvestigation on father's death," I replied. 

She flinched and rearranged her skirt. "Why does he want reopen old wounds? That case was closed three years ago."

I sat up straight and gave her a scathing glare. "You see that is the problem. You say the case is closed but the police report says it went cold."

I saw her shiver. It was a second reaction but it was there and I had noticed it. Her pupils dilated and she gulped. 

"That is nonsense," she evaded. 

I dropped a copy of the classified documents Mr. Spencer had given to me and the file landed with a thud on the table. 

"This says otherwise."

I watched her gingerly pick the file and go through it. Her facial expressions wavering with each turn of a page. She closed the file forcefully and masked her expression. 

"This is just a rumour. I will handle it," she declared. 

I chuckled humourless. "Of course it is. I trust you would handle this, since handling such situations is what you do best. I do not want anything dragging our prestigious company to the mud."

I stood up, "I will go freshen up."

"I contacted the Zimbabweans. I informed them that you will be at the farm next week," she informed me calmly.

I frowned deeply. "What? Why would you do that?"

"I got intel that you said you would not do it if there was no other way. The Africans are unwavering on their requisite and we can't lose this deal because you choose to be whiny and incompetent," she exacted. 

"I would not do it," I challenged her. "I would not let my status be brought to shambles."

"You will," she compelled, quietly. 

I was bristled. Normally, Grandma would be loud and stern when she wanted me to do her wishes, especially when I was challenging her. 

"What if I insist?" I pushed. 

She smiled at me and stroke her wrinkled but freshly manicured fingers on a stack of framed photos on a stool by her sofa. I had not even noticed they were there in the first place. They were faced down, but I knew instantly what they were. My most prized possessions. 

I had lost everything after Mum had left; my joy, sanity, family. But those frames, those frames kept me sane. They held a promise: that they would not leave no matter what. And even though I had given up the passion that brought about these frames three years ago, they still stood by me unflinchingly and loyally. Those frames were my paintings. 

My porcelain skin drained of the colour it hardly held and I breathed out in fear. "You wouldn't."

But she did. First crashed the painting of the family I once had, the family I always wished to have. I used to hope, when I looked at that portrait, that I could regain the family I had lost. But now, that hope had been dashed. I was never getting it back. 

I wanted to back down then. This was a clash of will but I wanted Grandma to understand that I was no longer a child. 

"No?" She questioned, angling her head as her eyes danced in amusement. 

She knew what I was trying to do but wanted to leash me under her apron tight. She was not ready to let go until she molded me into a perfect piece. I was ready to let her do it but not by forcing me to be at a farm. 

I was snapped out of my thoughts when I heard the sound of glass shattering as another frame met the floor. My will snapped and conformed with that of Grandma's. I felt tears wet my cheeks. It felt so strange as it had been years since I last cried. 

"I will do it," I whispered. 

"What? Did you say something, child?" She taunted, cupping her ear with a palm. 

I glared icily at her and grumbled provokingly, "I said I would fucking do it."

She let another frame go and grinned charmingly at me, "That is for cursing in my presence. Go and get yourself prepared. I would handle this slight problem."

I gave her a contemptuous glower and strutted out the study to my room. I quickly undressed, showered and lit a cigarette. The warmth eased my tension and I exhaled the smoke. The flimsy night gown I was clad in danced to the direction of the wind as it hit me in the balcony. I tapped on my phone and contacted a secret service agency. 

"This is Ivory Stone," I said as soon as the call was answered. 

A female voice asked, " Good evening. How may we be of help, ma'am?"

"I need a competent private investigator," I requested. 

"We could get you that. We would send a list to your company's email," she informed me. 

"No," I intercepted quickly. "I would send my personal email to you. Send it there."

Grandma could access the company's email and as much as she wanted to to believe she had it handled, I needed to make investigations of my own. I would not swallow everything I was told hook, line and sinker, especially as regards to my father's death. 

"Okay ma'am. The list would be sent to you tomorrow," she assured.  

"The very best," I reminded her. "The pay would not be a problem."

"Duly noted, ma'am. Have a nice day," she hung up. 

I made another call to another secret service agency. I requested another competent detective. I needed precise and accurate information on this issue. A name was promised me tomorrow and I ended the call. Then I made one last call to the police, urging them to reopen the case on my father's death. Even though, I knew Grandma was not going to be happy with my decision. She always wanted to call the shots and I was not having it this time.