5

The night dragged on, thick with the tension from the conversation with Aunt Nomsa and the mysterious man. Thuli sat on the couch, her eyes fixed on the journal, but her mind was elsewhere. It was like she was trapped in a maze, and every turn led her deeper into confusion and fear.

Kabelo paced again, his usual calm demeanor shattered. "What the hell just happened?" he muttered under his breath, rubbing his forehead. "Nomsa comes here with a man we don’t even know, telling us things about Dad we don’t want to hear, and then leaves like nothing happened?"

Thuli didn’t have an answer. All she could do was stare at the journal, her thoughts swirling around it like a storm. What if everything they had been told—everything they thought they knew—was a lie?

She picked up the journal slowly, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the cover. It was time to face it. There was no more running. The truth was in her hands, and she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t ready to know what it meant.

"Do you really think this thing has all the answers?" Kabelo asked, leaning against the wall, his voice laced with doubt.

"I don’t know," Thuli replied, her eyes scanning the words in front of her. "But it’s all we’ve got."

Her gaze fell on a passage that made her stomach twist. It was a letter from her father. The handwriting was unmistakable—sharp and precise, just like him. But the words… the words made her head spin.

"Thuli, my dear daughter,

There are secrets that must never be told, secrets that could tear us all apart. The day you read this, I will be gone, and you will be the only one who can protect our family from the consequences of my choices. Trust no one but yourself. Trust your instincts."

Thuli’s hand shook as she put the journal down. The air in the room seemed to grow colder, heavier. She glanced up at Kabelo, his face pale under the dim light.

"What does that mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thuli didn’t have an answer. It was all too much. Too much to process, too much to bear. But one thing was clear: her father had known. He had known everything, and he had left her with the weight of it all.

"We need to find out more," Kabelo said, as if reading her thoughts. "There has to be someone who knows something—someone we can trust."

Thuli nodded slowly. "But who? Nomsa? No. She’s hiding something. That man? I don’t trust him either. If we’re going to find out what happened, we need to dig deeper—go beyond what’s written in this journal."

Her voice was determined now, a fire burning in her chest. "I’m not stopping until I know the whole truth."

---

The Next Day

The morning sun was weak, barely cutting through the thick curtains. Thuli and Kabelo were at the kitchen table, sipping coffee in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. It was quick, urgent. Thuli’s heart skipped a beat. She exchanged a glance with Kabelo before moving cautiously toward the door.

She opened it slowly. Standing there was a tall, elegant woman with striking features—Lindiwe, the family lawyer. Her face was stern, but there was something in her eyes that Thuli couldn’t place.

"Miss Thuli, Kabelo," Lindiwe said in a calm but serious tone. "We need to talk. It’s about your father’s will."

Thuli froze. Her father’s will? What was this about? She had been under the impression that the will had already been read, that everything had been settled. But now, the lawyer’s presence made it clear that something was amiss.

"Come in," Kabelo said, stepping aside.

Lindiwe entered, and the three of them sat down at the table. She placed a folder on the table in front of them, its contents shrouded in mystery. Thuli felt the knot in her stomach tighten.

"Your father left specific instructions for how his estate should be handled," Lindiwe began, her voice steady. "But there’s a complication."

Thuli leaned forward, her heart racing. "A complication? What kind of complication?"

Lindiwe glanced at the folder, her eyes shifting uncomfortably. "Your father… he had certain conditions. He didn’t want you to inherit everything unless you could prove something. And the conditions are… difficult to meet."

"What do you mean?" Kabelo demanded, his voice rising. "What kind of conditions?"

Lindiwe hesitated. "I’m afraid I can’t disclose everything right now. But what I can tell you is that there’s more to your father’s death than what you know. The truth is much darker than either of you realize."

Thuli’s heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean by darker? What happened to my father?"

Lindiwe didn’t answer immediately. She opened the folder slowly, revealing a set of papers. She slid one sheet across the table toward Thuli.

"These are the instructions your father left for you," Lindiwe said, her voice low. "If you want to claim what’s rightfully yours, you have to follow his wishes. And that includes facing the people responsible for what happened to him."

Thuli read the paper, her mind racing with questions. But it was the last line that caught her eye:

"Only when you discover the truth of your father’s death will you be able to claim your inheritance. Until then, everything will remain in limbo."

Her hands shook as she set the paper down. This was it. The truth she had been searching for was closer than ever. But the question was—could she handle it?

Lindiwe stood up, her eyes meeting Thuli’s with an intensity that made her shiver. "I suggest you prepare yourselves. This is only the beginning. The people you’re up against are dangerous. But you’ll have to face them head-on if you want to survive."

She turned and left the room without another word.

Kabelo slammed his fist on the table, frustration and anger flashing in his eyes. "This is insane, Thuli! We don’t know what we’re up against! How do we even begin to figure this out?"

Thuli took a deep breath, steadying herself. "We do it the only way we know how. We fight. And we don’t stop until we get what we deserve."

But even as the words left her mouth, Thuli couldn’t shake the feeling that this battle would cost them more than they ever imagined.

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