The heavy iron gates of the maximum-security prison groaned open, releasing a slender, middle-aged woman. Immani Dio stood on the threshold of a new life with a single burning desire: to forget the eight years of nightmares that had turned her from a happy wife into the presumed killer of her own husband. The September sun momentarily blinded her eyes, unaccustomed to the bright light. Clutched in her hands were a worn-out duffel bag containing her few possessions and an envelope stuffed with the cash she’d saved working for years in the prison’s garment workshop. Only thirty thousand dollars—her entire fortune after eight years of life behind bars.
Immani walked slowly down the dusty path leading from the facility to the bus stop. Each step felt heavy, not physically, but morally. The world had changed during those years, but she remained the same thirty-year-old woman arrested on suspicion of killing her husband. Now she was thirty-eight, and ahead lay the terrifying unknown.
The memories of that terrible night still haunted her. Eight years ago, she and Cairo had fought over money. He came home late, reeking of alcohol and unfamiliar cologne. Immani shouted at him, demanding an explanation for where he was blowing their family savings. Cairo snapped back sharply. He started waving his hands, and after that she only remembered a sharp pain in the back of her head and darkness.
She woke up to the sound of ambulance and police sirens. Cairo lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Next to him was a bloody fireplace poker. Neighbors, hearing the screams and noise, had called emergency services.
“You killed your husband in a state of diminished capacity,” Detective Darius King declared the next day.
The evidence was irrefutable: her fingerprints on the poker, her husband’s blood on her clothes, and neighbor testimonies about their domestic disputes. Her public defender, a young, inexperienced lawyer assigned by the state, didn’t even try to mount a serious defense.
“Eight years in a maximum-security facility for involuntary manslaughter. In a moment of passion,” the judge pronounced the sentence.
Immani remembered her legs buckling, the courtroom blurring before her eyes. She screamed that she was innocent, that she didn’t recall how it happened, but no one listened.
In prison, the first few months were the hardest. Immani couldn’t accept the idea that she was capable of killing anyone, especially Cairo, whom she had once loved. Yes, their marriage had been falling apart for the last two years. Yes, her husband had started drinking and coming home late. But killing him seemed unthinkable.
In time, she learned to survive the prison environment. She worked in the sewing shop, read books from the meager library, and corresponded with the few friends she had left. Gradually, the letters became fewer and then stopped completely. People forget—it’s natural.
The only bright spot in the gray prison days was her friendship with Ayana, an older woman serving time for white-collar crimes. Ayana became Immani’s mentor, almost a mother. It was Ayana who taught her never to lose hope and to believe in justice.
“Nita,” Ayana would tell her, using her nickname, “the truth always rises to the top like oil on water. You have to be ready for that moment.”
Ayana had been released on parole three years ago. As a farewell gift, she gave Immani a small medallion of St. Teresa and whispered:
“When you get out, the first thing you must do is visit your husband’s grave. Ask him for forgiveness—not for killing him, but for not being able to save him from the life he chose.”
Now, standing at the bus stop, waiting for a ride into the city, Immani gripped that same medallion tightly in her pocket. The bus arrived thirty minutes late. The driver, an older man with kind eyes, took pity on her when he learned where she was coming from.
“It’s all right now, dear,” he said. “Your life is just starting. The main thing is not to let bitterness take root.”
The trip to the city took two hours. Immani watched the passing landscape through the window, thinking about how she now had no home, no job, and no family. The apartment she and Cairo had rented was lost immediately after her arrest. Her parents had passed away before her marriage. She had no other relatives.
In the city, she went straight to a florist. She chose a modest bouquet of six white chrysanthemums, the only thing she could afford. The young salesperson looked curiously at her worn clothes and pale face.
“For a grave?” she asked sympathetically.
“For my husband,” Immani replied curtly.
The cemetery was located on the outskirts of the borough. Immani got there on two different buses, saving every penny. It was approaching evening when she finally reached the gates of Oakwood Memorial Park. The groundskeeper, a stocky man about forty-five years old, sat in his shed reading a newspaper. Seeing Immani with flowers, he nodded and waved her through.
Cairo Dio’s grave was in a distant corner of the cemetery among simple burial plots without expensive monuments. Eight years ago, Immani wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. She was under investigation. Now, for the first time, she saw her husband’s final resting place. A simple metal plaque with his name, last name, and dates of life:
Cairo Dio, beloved husband and son.
Immani gave a bitter smile. Beloved husband. If those who wrote those words knew how things really were.
She knelt before the grave and began clearing the weeds that had grown during years of neglect. No one had tended the grave. Cairo’s parents had died long ago. He had no other relatives. Immani carefully placed the flowers she’d brought and cried silently. The tears weren’t for the dead husband, but from the painful realization that eight years of her life had vanished without a trace. Eight years stolen by an unjust sentence that could not be returned. She was only thirty when they arrested her, and now she was thirty-eight. The best years wasted in vain.
Immani was so focused on tidying the grave that she didn’t notice she was being watched. Only as the sun began to set and the evening chill settled in the air did she feel a steady gaze. Turning around, she saw a little girl hiding behind a nearby headstone.
The girl was only about six years old, no more. Blonde hair braided into two pigtails, large gray eyes that held curiosity mixed with fear. She was dressed simply but cleanly in a plaid dress and a light jacket.
“Hello,” Immani called out softly, wiping her hands with a wet wipe. “What’s your name?”
The girl hesitantly emerged from her hiding place but maintained a safe distance. She clearly had been taught to be wary of strangers.
“Lumi,” the little one answered in a quiet voice. “And who are you? I’ve never seen you here.”
“I’m Immani. This is my husband’s grave,” the woman explained, pointing to the fresh flowers. “And what are you doing here so late? Where are your parents?”
“Daddy works.” The girl pointed toward the shed at the cemetery entrance. “We live here. Mommy died when I was little.”
Immani felt a pang of sympathy. The child was growing up among graves with a groundskeeper father. What kind of childhood could a little girl like that have?
“And how old are you, Lumi?”
“I turned six last month.” The girl relaxed a little, seeing Immani’s kind demeanor. “Daddy says I’m starting school soon.”
In Immani’s bag were some candies she’d bought, intending to eat them on the bus, but she hadn’t touched them. Now she pulled out a shiny wrapper and offered it to the girl.
“Would you like a piece of candy?”
Lumi looked at the sweet distrustfully, but temptation was stronger than caution. She moved closer and took the candy.
“Thank you,” she said politely, immediately unwrapping it.
“Sweetheart, has your dad worked here long?” Immani asked, hoping to start a conversation.
“Yeah.” The girl nodded, sucking on the candy. “My dad, Victor, says he’s been the groundskeeper for five years now, and we live in the little house by the gate.”
“So this Victor started working here after Cairo died,” Immani thought. But he might still know something or have heard something from the previous groundskeeper.
“And before your dad, did someone else work here?”
“Grandpa Nick worked here,” the girl chattered freely now, apparently craving conversation with someone other than her father. “But he got sick and went to the hospital and then he passed away. Daddy says Grandpa Nick used to tell lots of interesting stories about the cemetery.”
Immani felt this conversation could be important. What if that Grandpa Nick knew something about Cairo’s funeral? After all, he was buried eight years ago, and Victor had only been working here for five years.
“And what kind of stories did Grandpa Nick tell?”
Lumi paused, obviously recalling the tales she’d heard from her father.
“Different things. About how spooky it is here at night, about bad people who come around, and also…”
The girl suddenly broke off and looked at Immani with a thoughtful gaze.
“And also what?” Immani gently prompted her.
“And also, Grandpa told Daddy that some of the graves here are strange. That not always what should be in them is actually in them.”
Immani’s heart began to pound faster, but she tried not to show her anxiety.
“What do you mean, not what should be in them?”
Lumi shrugged.
“I don’t know. Daddy doesn’t like talking about it much. He says Grandpa was just old and made things up.”
The girl looked intently at Cairo’s grave, then back at Immani.
“Auntie Immani, is it true that your husband is buried here?”
“Of course it’s true. Why do you ask?”
Lumi moved closer to Immani and lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Auntie, there’s nobody in there. Do you want me to tell you a secret? Daddy Victor said he saw them take something out of this grave at night. Men came in a big car.”
Immani’s hands trembled. She struggled to remain calm.
“When was that, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know exactly. Daddy wasn’t telling me. He was telling his friend, Uncle Boris. They thought I was asleep, but I was listening.”
The girl smiled guiltily.
“Daddy said it was maybe three or four years ago. He wanted to chase them away at first, but they gave him money. A lot of money.”
Immani felt dizzy. If what the little girl was saying was true, someone had opened Cairo’s grave. But why? And what could they have taken from there?
“Lumi, are you sure your dad was talking about this grave?” She pointed to Cairo’s headstone.
The girl nodded.
“Yes. I know it well. It’s close to our little house, and I pass by here often. Daddy told Uncle Boris that the men dug right here near the metal plaque.”
Immani rose from her knees and looked around. The cemetery was emptying out. Most visitors had left. In the distance, she could see the groundskeeper making his rounds before closing.
“Sweetheart, can I talk to your dad?”
The girl became alarmed.
“Why? You won’t tell him I told you about the grave, will you? He’ll be mad at me then.”
“I won’t tell him. I promise. I just want to ask if they need any help here. Maybe I could do some work.”
This was only half the truth. Immani needed to stay in the city for at least a few days to find out more about what she’d heard, but she had almost no money. A job at the cemetery didn’t seem like an attractive prospect. But right now, she wasn’t in a position to choose.
“Daddy!” Lumi shouted loudly, waving toward the approaching man. “There’s an auntie here who wants to talk to you!”
Victor approached them with an even stride. He was a man about forty-five, of average height, with a simple, open face and observant brown eyes. He was wearing overalls and work boots.
“Good evening,” he greeted her politely. “Victor is the name.”
“I came to visit someone. My husband.” Immani pointed to the grave. “I’m Immani. I just arrived in the city recently. I wanted to ask if you need any help here. I can clean up, water the flowers, whatever.”
Victor scrutinized her with an appraising look. It was clear he was used to judging people by their appearance and mannerisms.
“Have you worked anywhere before?”
“I have,” Immani answered evasively. “I have varied experience. The last few years were at a textile factory.”
“Lumi, go home,” the father told his daughter seriously.
The girl reluctantly walked toward the shed, looking back at Immani.
“You understand, Immani, that the work here is specific. Different people come here. Not all of them are… well, normal. You have to know how to calm some people down and put others in their place if necessary.”
“I understand,” Immani nodded. “I’m not afraid of difficulty.”
“And where will you live? Do you have an apartment?”
Immani expected this question and had prepared an answer beforehand.
“For now, I’m renting a room from acquaintances, but if the work is permanent, I’ll rent something separate.”
Victor remained silent, considering the proposal.
“All right. Come back tomorrow morning. We’ll try it for a week. I won’t pay much, but the work isn’t complicated. The main thing is to be responsible and honest.”
“Thank you so much.” Immani was genuinely relieved. “What time should I come?”
“At eight in the morning. The cemetery opens at nine, but before that we need to check everything and sweep up any trash.”
As Immani left the cemetery, her thoughts were in turmoil. The little girl Lumi’s story could be a child’s fantasy, but something told her the girl was serious. Children her age rarely make up such details. If Cairo’s grave was truly opened, why? What were they looking for there? And most importantly, who were those people who came at night with money for the groundskeeper?
Immani walked through the dark city streets toward the bus stop, and for the first time in eight years, she felt like she had a purpose. Maybe she could finally find out the truth about that terrible night that destroyed her life.
The next morning, Immani was at the cemetery exactly at eight. She had spent the night in a cheap motel near the bus station, the only place she could afford, as the future was uncertain and she needed to conserve cash. The room was tiny and not very clean, but it provided a roof over her head and time to think.
Victor was already waiting for her by the entrance, sipping from a thermos. Seeing Immani, he nodded and handed her a bucket.
“We’ll start with the main walkways,” he explained. “We need to rake up the fallen leaves and sweep the pavers. Then we’ll check the garbage cans. We had a lot of visitors yesterday, so there’s probably a lot of trash.”
The work turned out to be less strenuous than she expected. Immani was used to physical labor from prison, so she worked quickly and effectively. Victor watched her with approval.
“You have working hands, that’s clear,” he remarked during a break. “Where did you work before? If it’s not a secret.”
Immani had anticipated this question and prepared a plausible answer.
“Different places. The last few years at a textile plant. It closed down recently. Had to look for a new job.”
“I see. There are job problems everywhere now.”
After lunch, when the flow of visitors slowed, Immani decided to cautiously broach the subject that interested her.
“Victor, you’ve worked here long, going on the fifth year now.”
“Before me, it was Grandpa Nick, bless his soul. He was a good man. Taught me a lot. And he passed away.”
“Yeah, about two years ago. Age, sickness, almost made it to eighty.” Victor sighed. “He used to tell me all sorts of stories about the cemetery. It was interesting to listen.”
“What kind of stories?”
Victor looked intently at Immani as if assessing whether he could trust her with such information.
“All kinds. About unusual visitors, about strange cases. He used to say he’d seen everything in thirty years of working here.”
“And what do you mean, strange cases?” Immani tried to maintain a casual tone.
Victor hesitated, clearly unsure whether to continue the topic.
“Well, sometimes the relatives of the deceased acted suspiciously, or conversely, someone would take an interest in a grave of a person who wasn’t their relative. Grandpa Nick was always observant. He remembered those things.”
“And what did he do in those cases?”
“What could he do? Our job is to mind our own business. The main thing is order, and that the graves aren’t damaged.”
Immani decided to take a risk and ask a more direct question.
“Victor, has it ever happened that graves were opened, officially or unofficially?”
The groundskeeper immediately tensed. He put down his broom and stared at Immani.
“Why do you ask? What does that have to do with you?”
“Just curious. I thought that only happened in movies.”
“All sorts of things happen,” Victor replied vaguely. “Sometimes relatives decide to relocate the remains. Sometimes law enforcement requires an exhumation. But all that is official, with paperwork. And unofficially…”
Victor was silent for a long time, clearly wrestling with himself. Finally, he sighed heavily.
“Immani, you seem like a straight-up person. I’ll tell you how it is. Yes, it has happened. Once, during my time here, some people came at night, offered me money, asked me not to interfere and not to tell anyone.”
“And you accepted?”
“What was I supposed to do? They offered me money that I don’t make in half a year, and I have a daughter growing up. She’ll be going to school soon, then college. It’s tough raising her alone.”
Immani felt her breathing quicken. So Lumi wasn’t making it up.
“And what were they looking for in the grave?”
“I don’t know, and I didn’t want to know. They asked me to leave for a few hours. I did. When I returned, everything was carefully rearranged and tidied up. No traces left.”
“Do you remember which grave it was?”
Victor tensed again.
“Why are you so interested? I don’t get these questions.”
Immani realized she was pushing too hard. She needed to act more carefully.
“I apologize if the questions seem odd. It’s just that I’ve never worked in a cemetery before, so I’m curious.”
“All right.” Victor relaxed slightly. “Just don’t tell anyone about this. If management finds out I was involved in that kind of stuff, I’ll be fired.”
“Of course, I won’t say anything.”
The rest of the day passed with routine tasks. Immani helped visitors find the necessary plots, swept the paths, and watered flowers on abandoned graves. She even enjoyed the work. After the confined atmosphere of prison, being outdoors was a relief.
In the evening, after the cemetery closed, Immani went to the city library. She needed to find information that might shed light on the circumstances of Cairo’s death. The library had internet access, and Immani decided to look up local newspaper archives. The librarian, an elderly woman with glasses, helped her find the necessary section.
Immani scanned the electronic archives of the city gazette from the year of Cairo’s death. In the March fifteenth issue, there was a small note: homicide in the city, domestic dispute leaves man dead. Cairo Dio, thirty-one, died from injuries sustained during a conflict with his wife. Suspect detained.
Immani continued browsing, searching for any mention of herself or her husband. A month after the murder, in the April eighteenth issue, her attention was caught by a completely different article: The Bank of the Americas branch robbed. Fifty-million-dollar haul. Criminals stole a large sum of money from the vault—approximately fifty million dollars. Investigation seeking the culprits.
Immani reread the note several times. The Bank of the Americas was where Cairo worked. He had been the branch manager there for several years. Could this be a coincidence?
She continued studying the archives. In subsequent newspaper issues, there were several more articles about the bank robbery. The investigation hit a dead end. The criminals left no clues and had worked professionally. Surveillance cameras were disconnected and the alarm was blocked from the inside. This suggested the robbery was committed by someone who knew the bank’s security system well.
The April twenty-fifth issue featured an interview with the bank’s CEO.
“We didn’t just lose money, we lost one of our best employees. Cairo Dio was an experienced manager. His death was a hard blow to all of us. Perhaps if he had been alive, such a robbery wouldn’t have occurred.”
Immani felt goosebumps rise on her skin. The connection between her husband’s death and the bank robbery seemed more than suspicious. Cairo dies under mysterious circumstances, and a month later, the bank where he worked is robbed. This could not be a coincidence.
She continued her search and found another curious detail. In the May second issue, there was a small note stating that law enforcement was asking anyone with information about Cairo Dio’s business contacts to come forward. The message stated that the deceased might have possessed information that could aid in solving the robbery.
Immani printed all the materials she found and put them in her bag. The library’s operating hours were ending, but she had gotten what she was looking for. Now she had far more questions than answers.
Returning to the motel, she pondered the information she’d obtained. If Cairo was somehow involved in the bank robbery, then his death might not have been accidental. But who and why would have killed him? And most importantly, if he was dead, who robbed the bank?
In the motel room, Immani spread the printed sheets on the bed and tried to construct a logical chain of events. Cairo works at the bank, has access to security system information. He is killed in March. The bank is robbed in April. Several years later, someone opens his grave at night. Why?
The only explanation she could come up with sounded unbelievable. What if Cairo wasn’t dead? What if his death was a setup and someone else was lying in that grave?
The idea seemed delusional to Immani, but the more she thought about it, the more logical it all became. Cairo could have faked his own death to rob the bank unimpeded and escape. And she, the only witness to those events, was framed for murder.
But how was that technically possible? She remembered the blood, the unconscious body of her husband. Was it all a cleverly staged scene?
Immani lay down but couldn’t sleep. Her mind raced with increasingly incredible thoughts. Tomorrow she absolutely had to talk to someone who remembered Cairo, who knew about his work at the bank. Perhaps his former colleagues could provide crucial information.
In the morning, upon arriving at work, Immani decided to question Victor in more detail about the night the grave was opened. She chose a moment when there were few visitors in the cemetery.
“Victor, yesterday you told me about the people who came at night. Did you see them? Do you remember what they looked like?”
The groundskeeper became uneasy.
“Why are you interested?”
“Not every day you hear something like that.”
“I saw them. Two middle-aged men, one tall, thin, in an expensive suit, the other stockier in a leather jacket. They spoke politely, not like thugs.”
“What did they drive?”
“A black SUV. I didn’t notice the license plate. Didn’t even try.”
“And what did they tell you?”
Victor paused, recalling.
“The tall one said they needed to retrieve something from the grave. Said it was a family matter, that the deceased was a relative. But I know all the plots here. That deceased man had no relatives.”
“Which deceased man?” Immani tried to speak as calmly as possible.
“The Dio one. Cairo. I remember the last name because it’s uncommon. He was a young man. Such a shame.”
Immani’s heart started pounding so hard she feared Victor would hear it. Her suspicions were confirmed. Cairo’s grave really had been opened.
“And what could they have been looking for there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some valuables were buried with the deceased. That happens. People put gold, cash in the coffin, and then the relatives regret it and decide to retrieve it.”
“But you said he had no relatives.”
“He didn’t. That’s why the whole thing was strange. But they offered so much money that I decided not to get involved.”
Immani nodded, pretending the topic no longer interested her. But inside, everything was churning. Now she was almost certain that she had become the victim of a monstrous scheme.
After work, she headed to the apartment she had shared with Cairo. They had rented the unit on Park Avenue in a five-story brownstone. Immani remembered the address by heart. The building was still there, looking even more dilapidated than eight years ago.
Immani climbed to the second floor and knocked on the door of the apartment opposite her old one. Her neighbor Valentina, an elderly woman who was always aware of all the neighborhood gossip, lived there. Valentina, looking older and much frailer, opened the door. Seeing Immani, she cried out and clutched her hand to her chest.
“My God, Nita, they let you out!”
“Hello, Valentina. Yes, I’m out now.”
“Come in, come in. Oh, what a joy to see you.”
The old woman led Immani into the small but cozy kitchen and immediately put the kettle on.
“Tell me, how are you? How’s your health? Oh, how I worried about you all these years.”
“Thank you. Tell me, Valentina, do you remember that night when everything happened?”
The elderly woman’s face darkened.
“How could I forget? It was awful. Screaming, noise. Then the police and the ambulance came. The whole building was in an uproar.”
“And do you remember if anyone came to visit us that day before everything happened?”
Valentina pondered.
“Yes, I think someone came in the late afternoon. A man. I don’t remember exactly what he looked like, but I remember he was wearing a suit, dressed nicely.”
“And what did he do?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t stay long. Maybe half an hour. Then he left.”
“How did he leave?”
“In some dark car. I saw it from the window, but I couldn’t make out the license plate.”
This information seemed very important to Immani. So, on the day of the murder, someone visited them—possibly the very person who helped Cairo fake his death.
“Valentina, do you happen to remember Cairo’s business partner? He used to visit us sometimes. Maxwell Theron.”
“Oh yes, Maxwell. I remember him. A disagreeable man, always so serious. I didn’t like him. And after they arrested you, did he ever come back around?”
“No, I didn’t see him again. And who would he come to see? The apartment was empty. The landlord later found other tenants.”
Saying goodbye to Valentina, Immani headed to the city center. She needed to find information about Maxwell Theron and find out where he was now.
In the city archives, Immani managed to find some information about Maxwell Theron. According to the documents, he was an entrepreneur involved in real estate and owned several companies. After Cairo’s death, he closed all his businesses and left the city.
Immani found the address of his former office in an old phone book. The building was in the city’s business district, on the third floor of an office complex. Immani decided to go there, hoping to find someone who remembered him. The office building looked quite respectable. On the third floor, the space previously occupied by Theron’s company now housed an advertising agency.
Immani went in and approached the secretary.
“Good morning. Do you happen to know where Maxwell Theron’s company moved to? It used to be here.”
“Ah, Theron and Associates?” the young woman asked. “They closed down a long time ago, three or four years ago. Why do you need them?”
“I have a small outstanding debt. I’d like to settle it.”
“Try asking the neighboring office. There’s an accounting firm there. They’ve been here a long time. Maybe they know something.”
In the next office, Immani was met by the head accountant, Olivia, a woman about fifty with sharp gray eyes and a neat haircut.
“I remember Theron, of course,” she said when Immani repeated her request. “He was an unpleasant person, and his company was suspicious.”
“Suspicious in what sense?”
Olivia looked around, making sure no one was listening, and lowered her voice.
“The money movements were strange, sometimes suddenly a lot of cash, sometimes completely empty, and the clients were suspicious. I sometimes ran into them in the hallway, the kind of people you look away from quickly.”
“And do you happen to know where he is now?”
“Theron left somewhere. They said he went abroad—and a good thing, in my opinion.”
“Why a good thing?”
Olivia looked around again.
“After that bank robbery, there was quite a fuss. The police checked all the businessmen who did business with that bank, and Theron was summoned, too. And a month later, he vanished.”
“Did he work with the Bank of the Americas?”
“Yes, they had a large loan there and also conducted some transactions through that bank. I don’t know exactly, but I overheard things.”
Immani felt the puzzle pieces beginning to click into place. Theron worked with the same bank as Cairo. The bank was robbed a month after Cairo’s death, and Theron disappeared immediately after the police started their checks.
“Olivia, do you happen to remember who else worked at Theron’s company? Maybe some contacts remained.”
“There was a nice young female accountant working there. What was her name? Elena, I think. I don’t recall the last name.”
“And where can I find her?”
“I have no idea. After the company closed, everyone scattered.”
Immani thanked the woman and left the office. There was little information, but it was something. The connection between Theron and the bank was confirmed. Now she needed to find that accountant. Perhaps she had more details.
Immani spent the next two days searching. She went through various organizations where a young Elena with an accounting background might work. The task wasn’t easy. There were many companies in the city, and not all of them allowed her to review employee lists. Finally, at one of the auditing firms, the secretary said:
“Elena Vasquez. She works here. What is this concerning?”
“I’m a distant relative of hers. I’d like to meet with her.”
“She’s not here right now. She’s on an audit at a client company, but she’ll be back tomorrow. Come after lunch.”
The next day, Immani arrived at the appointed time. Elena Vasquez turned out to be an attractive young woman of about twenty-eight with long dark hair and large brown eyes. When Immani introduced herself and explained that she was looking for information about Maxwell Theron, the young woman’s face changed.
“And who are you, and why do you need information about Maxwell?”
“It’s a long story. Can we talk privately somewhere?”
Elena hesitated, but curiosity won out.
“All right. I have a lunch break in an hour. Let’s meet at the café across the street.”
At the café, Immani decided to tell the truth—partially, but the truth.
“Elena, eight years ago, I was convicted of my husband’s murder. My husband’s name was Cairo Dio. He worked at the Bank of the Americas. I was recently released and started my own investigation. It turns out your former boss, Theron, is somehow involved in that story.”
The young woman went pale.
“You… you’re that Immani Dio they wrote about in the papers?”
“Yes, I am. But I’m innocent and trying to prove it.”
Elena was silent for a long time, pondering what she’d heard.
“I don’t know if I should talk to you. This could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous in what way?”
“Maxwell is not someone you want to be associated with. When I worked for him, I saw various suspicious things.”
“Such as?”
Elena looked around, making sure no one was listening.
“Large sums of cash passed through the company. I asked where such movements came from, and he said it was his personal business.”
“And what was that money?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I remember that in the last few months before the company closed, Maxwell was very nervous, constantly calling someone, going to meetings. And also…”
The young woman paused, as if hesitant to continue.
“And also what?”
“He frequently mentioned your husband, Cairo Dio. I remember the last name because it’s uncommon. Maxwell was talking to someone on the phone, and several times I heard, ‘Dio agreed, Dio will fix it.’ Something like that.”
Immani gasped.
“This was shortly before Cairo’s death?”
“Yes, literally a few days before. And then Maxwell came to work gloomier than a storm cloud. Said he had problems, that the company might have to close.”
“And after Cairo’s death, did his behavior change in any way?”
“He became paranoid, constantly looking around. He was afraid of phone calls. And he also started destroying documents, entire boxes of them.”
“What documents?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t let anyone near them, but I saw fragments. There were some contracts, bank certificates.”
“Elena, this is very important. Do you remember any details about Theron’s relationship with the Bank of the Americas?”
The young woman became thoughtful.
“I remember he had a large loan there, twenty million dollars, if not more. And they were also discussing some investment projects. Maxwell often went to the bank for meetings.”
“Who did he meet with?”
“I don’t know exactly, but he mentioned the manager’s name several times—Cairo, I think.”
Immani felt everything click into place in her mind. Cairo and Theron were definitely working together on something. And that something led to the bank robbery and the staged murder.
“Elena, do you know where Theron disappeared to?”
“Officially nowhere. He just closed the company and vanished. But I heard from an acquaintance that they saw him at the airport with a lot of luggage. That was immediately after the police started checking on the bank robbery.”
“So he really did go abroad,” Immani concluded. “Most likely forever.”
After the conversation with Elena, Immani no longer had any doubts. Theron and Cairo had planned the bank robbery, but something went wrong and Cairo had to fake his own death. Theron got his share and fled abroad.
But one thing she still couldn’t understand: why was it necessary to open Cairo’s grave? What could those people Victor saw have been looking for there?
The answer to that question was probably in the grave itself, and Immani decided it was time to find out the whole truth.
Immani spent the next few days thinking about how to get to the truth. The conversation with Elena provided a lot of information, but it didn’t clarify the main point. If Cairo was alive, where could he be found? The only way to find out was to locate people who might have a connection to Theron.
At the city hall, Immani found the address of Theron’s old apartment. The house was in a prestigious district. The apartment was a three-bedroom high-end unit. Other people lived there now, but the neighbors might remember something. A woman in the next apartment turned out to be talkative and curious.
“Theron. Yes, I remember that disagreeable fellow. Always so serious. He lived alone, rarely had guests, and then suddenly he disappeared, sold the apartment through real estate agents. He didn’t even show up for the closing.”
“Do you remember if he had any friends or acquaintances?”
“Occasionally, a tall, thin man would visit. They talked about serious things, sometimes raising their voices.”
“What did this man look like?”
“Normal. Middle-aged, in business clothes. But I remember he had a mole on his cheek. Very noticeable.”
Immani thanked the neighbor and left. A mole on his cheek. This detail could be useful when searching for witnesses.
That evening, returning from her work at the cemetery, Immani found Victor in a strange state. He was clearly agitated and kept looking around.
“What happened, Victor?”
“Some people came by today. They asked about you.”
Immani’s heart skipped a beat.
“What people?”
“Two men. Said they were from management, checking on new hires, but something about them felt off.”
“What exactly felt off?”
“They asked strange questions. They weren’t interested in the work, but where you live, who you talk to, what you talk about.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? I said you’re a good, responsible worker. I don’t know anything else about you.”
“Victor… was one of those men tall, thin, with a mole on his cheek?”
The groundskeeper looked at her in surprise.
“How do you know? Yes, that’s exactly what he looked like. And the second one, shorter, stockier. Where do you know them from?”
Immani understood that her searches had not gone unnoticed. Someone was watching her, and that someone was clearly connected to the story from eight years ago.
“Victor, if those people show up again, tell me immediately and be careful.”
“What’s going on, Immani? What trouble have you gotten yourself into?”
“I’m trying to find the truth about my husband’s death. Maybe someone doesn’t like that.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t dig up the past. It’s dangerous. Not necessary.”
“I served eight years for someone else’s crime. I have the right to know the truth.”
The next day, Immani decided to proceed with more caution. She knew she was being watched and needed to be ready for any turn of events.
In the morning, upon arriving at work, she found Lumi, Victor’s daughter, crying near the shed.
“What happened, sweetheart?”
“Daddy is sick. He has a high fever. He’s lying down.”
Immani entered the groundskeeper’s small house. Victor lay in bed, pale. He was mumbling something incoherent about some people, about money, about how he shouldn’t have accepted it.
“Lumi, I’m going to call an ambulance,” Immani said. “In the meantime, you look after Daddy.”
When the paramedics arrived, the doctor examined Victor and frowned.
“Looks like poisoning. He needs to go to the hospital.”
“Poisoning? What could he have been poisoned with?”
“It’s not clear yet. We need tests.”
They took Victor to the hospital. Lumi stayed with Immani, who asked her acquaintance from the motel to look after the girl.
In the evening, after the cemetery closed, Immani went to the hospital to visit Victor. He was conscious but looked very weak.
“Immani,” he whispered, “those people came again yesterday. After you left, they offered me some tea, said they were tired from traveling, and this morning I felt sick. They poisoned you?”
“It looks like it. And they also threatened me. Said if I keep telling anyone about that night when they opened the grave, Lumi will suffer.”
Immani felt a chill run down her spine. These people would stop at nothing.
“Victor, you have to go to the police.”
“No,” he said sharply. “I can’t. I have a daughter. I can’t put her in danger.”
“Then what should we do?”
“Leave the city before it’s too late. Those people are dangerous.”
But Immani couldn’t leave. She was too close to the solution to give up now. Besides, if she left, who would protect Victor and Lumi?
The next morning, working alone at the cemetery, Immani noticed a black SUV driving slowly along the road that ran next to the fence. The car stopped at the entrance and two men got out—exactly the ones Victor had described. Immani quickly hid behind a large headstone and began to observe.
The men walked directly toward Cairo’s grave. The tall one with the mole on his cheek pulled out a phone and called someone.
“She works here,” he was saying. “Comes every day. The groundskeeper is in the hospital. We can make our move.”
The second man looked around.
“And where is she now?”
“She must be here. Her things are near the shed.”
Immani realized she had walked into a trap. There were only two exits from the cemetery: the main gate, where those people were, and the service gate on the other side, but it was locked and Victor had the keys.
She moved silently from monument to monument, trying to reach the service exit. Maybe she could climb over the fence, but as she approached the far part of the cemetery, she saw a third person standing near the service gate—the same stocky man in the leather jacket Victor had described.
Immani was trapped. Three clearly unfriendly men and nowhere to run. She had her phone in her pocket, but calling the police meant putting Lumi in danger.
Suddenly, she heard a voice.
“Immani, are you here?”
It was Elena Vasquez, the accountant she had spoken with recently. The young woman had entered the cemetery through the main gate and was looking for her.
“Elena,” Immani whispered from behind the monument. “Quiet! There are dangerous people here.”
The young woman came closer and Immani quickly explained the situation.
“Oh my God,” Elena gasped. “What should we do? Do you have a car?”
“Yes, it’s in the parking lot.”
“Listen carefully. You’re going to walk over to the main entrance now. Tell those men you’re looking for the cemetery administration. Distract them for a couple of minutes and I’ll try to get over the fence. If they suspect anything, say you don’t know them. Tell them you need a death certificate for a relative for tax purposes.”
Elena nodded and headed toward the entrance. Immani watched as she spoke to the men, showing some documents from her bag. Seizing the moment, Immani quickly ran toward the fence in the far corner of the cemetery. The fence here was lower and didn’t have barbed wire on top. She climbed over it, scraping her hands and tearing her clothes, but she made it out onto the street.
A few minutes later, Elena caught up with her, panting.
“I told them I was looking for the administration, and they said the administration is in the city. They seemed to believe it.”
“Thank you so much. You saved my life.”
They quickly got into Elena’s car and drove away. Only when the city was behind them did Immani feel relatively safe.
“Elena, why did you come to the cemetery? How did you know where to find me?”
The young woman smiled awkwardly.
“After our conversation, I couldn’t settle down. You mentioned getting a job at the cemetery. I kept thinking about what I told you about Maxwell and your husband, and I decided I knew something else important, and I needed to tell you.”
“What exactly?”
“Remember I said Maxwell was destroying documents? Well, he didn’t destroy all of them. I have copies of some papers at home. I made them for accounting purposes and then forgot to hand them over.”
Immani’s heart pounded.
“What documents?”
“Contracts with the Bank of the Americas and something else interesting. Maxwell’s correspondence with a person named Alex Romano.”
Immani froze.
“Elena, this is very important. Where are those documents?”
“At home in my closet. I haven’t even read them closely. I just put them in a folder.”
They drove to Elena’s apartment. The young woman lived in a studio in a housing development. She pulled out a thick folder of documents from the closet.
“Here, look. There’s everything. Contracts, certificates, letters.”
Immani began to review the papers. Most were standard business documents, but suddenly her attention was drawn to one sheet. It was a letter from Alex Romano to Maxwell Theron, dated in March of the year Cairo died.
Maxwell, everything is going according to plan. Tomorrow will be the accident after which I can act freely. In a month, when things calm down, we will carry out the bank operation. Your task is to provide the alibi and the channels for moving the money. After that, we meet at the agreed location and divide the profits. Don’t forget our agreement about the grave. In a few years, it will be necessary to retrieve important documents from there.
The letter was signed: A. Romano.
Immani reread the letter several times. There it was, written proof that Cairo had faked his own death. And now she knew they were looking for some important documents in his grave.
“Elena, do you understand what this means?”
“No. What?”
“It means my husband is alive. He faked his own death to rob the bank and escape, and I was framed for the murder of a person who didn’t even die.”
The young woman gasped.
“But how is that possible? There was forensic analysis, body identification.”
“Apparently, it was all arranged. Someone else is lying in that grave, and Cairo is hiding under the name Alex Romano.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We have to find Alex Romano and prove that he is my living husband.”
Immani understood that to prove her innocence, she needed more serious evidence than a letter of dubious origin. It was necessary to find out exactly who was buried in the grave under the name Cairo Dio.
At the city hospital, her former medical school classmate, Khloe Nzingha, worked. Immani remembered that Khloe worked in the pathology department. Perhaps she could help with information about the autopsy of Cairo’s body.
Meeting Khloe at the hospital was risky. Theron’s people could be there. Immani asked Elena to find Khloe’s home address and arrange a meeting there. A day later, Elena reported that the meeting was scheduled for the evening. Khloe lived in a private home on the city’s outskirts with her husband and two children.
Seeing Immani, Khloe couldn’t hide her surprise.
“Immani, my God, they released you. How are you? How’s your health?”
“I’m fine, Khloe, but I need your help. It’s about my case.”
“Come in. Tell me about it over some tea.”
In the cozy kitchen, after the children were in bed and her husband had gone to the garage, Immani told Khloe about her suspicions.
“You seriously think Cairo faked his death?” Khloe asked incredulously.
“More than seriously, and I have written proof. But I need to know who was buried under my husband’s name.”
“Ami, that was eight years ago. Do you think I remember every autopsy?”
“Khloe, you know it was a high-profile case. Murder, trial—you don’t forget that.”
Khloe became thoughtful.
“You know, I do remember that case because it was strange. The body came in bad condition, severe head trauma. And also…”
“And also what?”
“The identification wasn’t done by a relative. A man came, said he was the deceased’s business partner. His last name was… what was it? Theron? Yes, Theron.”
“And why didn’t the relatives identify him?”
“He said the deceased had no parents, the wife was under investigation. His paperwork was in order. He had authorization from the detective.”
“Khloe, do you remember anything specific about that body? Any marks, scars, moles?”
Khloe recalled with effort.
“Yes, there was one detail. The deceased had a tattoo on his chest. Small but noticeable. An anchor with the inscription ‘Sea Wolf.’”
Immani felt a chill in her chest.
“Khloe, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I record all tattoos in the protocol. It’s an important distinguishing mark.”
“My husband never had tattoos. He hated them.”
Khloe looked at her friend in confusion.
“But how? If it’s not your husband, then who is it?”
“That’s what I need to find out. Khloe, are the autopsy records still kept?”
“They should be in the archives, but I can’t just walk in there. You need official authorization.”
“And unofficially?”
Khloe hesitated.
“Immani, it’s too risky. If they find out I showed archived documents to outsiders—”
“Please. I spent eight years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. Help me find the truth.”
“All right. I have the night shift tomorrow, around two in the morning. No one will be around. You can come, but only for half an hour. No more.”
The next day, Immani spent the day in tense anticipation. She could no longer work at the cemetery. It was too dangerous. Instead, she and Elena studied the found documents, trying to find more clues. The letter from Alex Romano mentioned a meeting place. Where could that be? And what documents did he hide in the grave?
At two in the morning, Immani approached the service entrance of the hospital. Khloe was waiting for her in the hallway of the pathology department.
“Quickly, while the guard is in the other wing,” she whispered.
In the archive, Khloe quickly found the necessary folder.
“Here. Case 127, Dio, Cairo.”
Immani opened the folder with trembling hands. It contained photographs of the body, the autopsy protocol, and the death certificate. The photographs weren’t of great quality, but the tattoo on the chest was clearly visible: an anchor with the inscription Sea Wolf, exactly as Khloe had described.
“This is definitely not my husband,” Immani said.
“Then who is it?”
Immani carefully studied the protocol.
“Deceased’s age approximately thirty to thirty-five. Height five feet nine. Build average. Distinguishing marks: tattoo on the chest, a scar on the left arm three centimeters long.”
“Khloe, where could this person have come from? Where could they have found a body that matched the age and build?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a transient or someone who died of an overdose.”
“And how can we find out this person’s identity?”
“Only through fingerprints or DNA. But fingerprints were only taken from criminals, and the DNA database didn’t exist yet back then.”
Suddenly, Immani noticed a small note in the corner of the protocol: sent from Municipal Morgue No. 2. Cause of death: overdose of prohibited substances, identity not established.
“Khloe, look. This person came from another morgue as an unrecognized identity.”
“Yes, that happens. If a person dies on the street and has no documents, they send them to the morgue as unknown. After some time, they are buried at public expense and records are kept. Surely Morgue No. 2 must have an admission log. You could contact colleagues there.”
Khloe considered it.
“I could try. My former colleague, Irena, works there, but it’s also a risk.”
“Please try. It’s very important.”
The next day, Khloe called Immani.
“Irena agreed to help. She found an entry in the log. Unknown male brought to the morgue on March tenth. Found near the train station. Cause of death, overdose of prohibited substances. Approximate age thirty. Tattoo on the chest, an anchor.”
“And did anyone try to identify him?”
“No. Irena says there are many cases like that. Such people die, and their relatives either don’t know or don’t want to get involved.”
“Khloe, this person could have been from another city.”
“It’s very possible. From the tattoo, you could assume he had some connection to the Navy or just liked the maritime theme.”
Immani thanked her friend and began to process the information. Theron and Cairo found the body of an unknown man that matched the age and build. Cairo faked his own death, brought in the stranger’s body, and she was framed for murder.
But one thing she still didn’t understand was how the setup was technically carried out. After all, she remembered the blood. She remembered Cairo lying on the floor unconscious. Perhaps he really was wounded, but not mortally. And then, while Immani was unconscious, they replaced his body with the stranger’s corpse. There had been enough time for that. The ambulance and police only arrived an hour after the neighbors heard the screaming.
Now she had solid evidence that Cairo was alive. But where to look for him, and how to officially prove her innocence?
Immani realized she couldn’t handle this alone. She needed help from professionals—investigators, experts. But first, she needed to find Cairo himself, alive and well, hiding under a false name.
After the discoveries in the hospital archives, Immani realized she needed help finding Cairo. Independently finding a person hiding under a false name in another country was impossible. Elena had an acquaintance, the private detective Naomi Ruiz, who specialized in locating people. Naomi agreed to help, but warned that her services weren’t cheap.
“I have connections in different departments,” Naomi explained. “I can check databases, passport offices, customs services, but I have to be paid for the information.”
Immani had a catastrophically small amount of money, but Elena offered to lend her the necessary sum.
Naomi started working with enthusiasm. In three days, she called with the first results.
“Your Alex Romano is a real person, but the interesting thing is that all the documents he used to get his passport were fake.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I have an acquaintance in the passport office, by the way. I paid him well to check the documents. The birth certificate is fake. The registration certificate too. All done very professionally, but fake.”
“And where is he now?”
“Officially, he left for Turkey. He hasn’t appeared on U.S. territory in a long time, but I have connections in travel agencies. I’ll try to find out the details.”
A few days later, Naomi brought sensational news.
“Your Alex Romano is living in Antalya. He owns a chain of restaurants. He is married to a local woman. They have a son. He lives under the name Alex Romano—he slightly altered his last name for convenience.”
Immani felt faint. So Cairo really was alive. He had a new family, a new life built with stolen money and at the cost of her ruined destiny.
“What should we do now?” Elena asked.
“We have to force him to come back to the U.S.,” Immi said decisively, “and confess what he did.”
“But how? He’s not stupid. He won’t come back voluntarily.”
Immani remembered the letter she found in Theron’s documents. It mentioned documents hidden in the grave. Perhaps those documents held great value for Cairo.
“Naomi, can we contact Alex Romano by phone, for example?”
“We can. I have the number for his restaurant. Why?”
“I want to offer him a deal.”
The next day, Immi dialed the international number. A male voice with a distinctive accent answered.
“Hello. Russian Courtyard Restaurant.”
“May I speak to Alex Romano, please?”
“One moment.”
After a short while, a familiar voice came on the phone.
“I’m listening.”
“Hello, Cairo.”
A long pause. Then:
“Who is this?”
“Your wife, the one who served eight years for your murder.”
An even longer pause.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have the wrong number.”
“No, I don’t have the wrong number. I know everything. I know about the bank robbery, about Theron, about the fake documents, and I know that in your grave lies a deceased man with a Sea Wolf tattoo.”
The silence was so long that Immi thought he had hung up.
“What do you want?” Cairo finally asked.
“To meet and talk.”
“I’m not coming to the U.S.”
“I think it’s in your best interest. After all, I have something you need.”
“What exactly?”
“The documents from your grave. The very ones you asked Theron to retrieve in a few years.”
Another pause.
“How do you know about the documents?”
“I have your correspondence with Maxwell. All of it.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Come to New York City. We’ll meet in a public place. You get your documents and I get a written confession that you faked your death.”
“You’re crazy. I’m not confessing to anything.”
“Then your documents will end up with Interpol and the Turkish police. I think they’ll be interested to know who Alex Romano really is and where he got the money for his restaurant business.”
A long pause. Immi could hear Cairo breathing heavily.
“What guarantees do I have that you won’t set a trap for me?”
“I’m not Theron. I just need justice. You confess to staging your death, I get exonerated, and then everyone lives their own life. And if you don’t come, then I’ll hand over all the documents to the district attorney’s office and Interpol. They’ll find you sooner or later.”
Cairo was silent, pondering the proposal.
“Where is the meeting?” he finally asked.
“In New York, at a coffee shop in a shopping mall. A busy place. Tomorrow at two in the afternoon.”
“I can’t do tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.”
“All right. I’ll be waiting.”
Immi gave him the address and hung up. Her hands were trembling with tension. She knew she was taking an enormous risk. Cairo could bring people with him or not show up at all.
“Are you sure this is the right decision?” Elena asked. “It could be dangerous.”
“There’s no other way out. If he doesn’t come, I’ll really hand everything over to the DA. And if he comes, I’ll try to convince him to make the right choice.”
Naomi suggested organizing the meeting to maximize Immi’s safety.
“We’ll choose a coffee shop with a good vantage point. I’ll sit at a nearby table. At the slightest sign of danger, I’ll call mall security.”
Immi agreed. She had no experience in such matters and a professional’s help was essential.
The day before the meeting, Immi went to the cemetery one last time as an employee. Victor had been released from the hospital and was back at work. He looked frail but was recovering.
“Immi, thank you for looking after Lumi. And what about those people?”
“They haven’t shown up again. I think they won’t be back. I have information about them that will stop them. And I’m not coming back to work.”
“You’re not?”
“No, Victor. I need to finish something. Something very important.”
She said goodbye to him and to little Lumi, who gave her a drawing: a woman with a bouquet of flowers next to a monument.
“That’s you, Auntie Immi,” the girl explained. “You’re a good person.”
Immi could barely hold back her tears. These people had become dear to her in a short time, and tomorrow it would be decided whether she could get her stolen life back or if everything would stay the same.
On the day of the meeting, Immi arrived in New York City on the morning bus. Her anxiety was so intense that she had barely eaten anything since the morning. In her hands, she carried a small bag with copies of all the documents she had managed to find.
The Hudson Center Mall in downtown Manhattan was chosen for a reason: a crowd of people, surveillance cameras, and security. The coffee shop was on the second floor with a good view of the entire shopping area. Naomi arrived thirty minutes before the appointed time and sat at a table in the opposite corner of the café. Immi took a seat by the window, from which she could see the escalator.
Exactly at two in the afternoon, a man in a dark suit and sunglasses ascended the escalator. Immi recognized him instantly. It was Cairo. He had changed in eight years—tanned, had gained weight, wrinkles around his eyes—but his gait and mannerisms were the same. He looked around, spotted Immi, and slowly approached her table. He sat down opposite her without removing his sunglasses.
“Hello, Immi.”
“Hello, Cairo.”
They looked at each other for a few seconds. Immi tried to understand what she felt toward this person who was once her husband. Anger, hatred, pain. Mostly just emptiness.
“You look good,” Cairo said. “Prison didn’t break you.”
“Don’t make small talk. Get to the point.”
“Fine. Where are the documents first?”
“You answer some questions. Why did you do this?”
Cairo removed his sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes were still gray, but now they showed fatigue and fear.
“I needed a lot of money fast.”
“For what?”
“I had debts. Huge debts.”
“What kind of debts?”
Cairo hesitated.
“Gambling debts. I lost a large sum to the wrong people. They said either you pay back one and a half million dollars by the end of the month or…”
“Or what?”
“They were going to kill me for my debts.”
Immi stared at him, stunned.
“So you faked your death to save your life?”
“Partially, yes. If I had just disappeared, they would have come after you. If I died, what was the point of taking revenge on the widow?”
“But then, why did I end up in prison?”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Cairo leaned across the table toward her. “The plan was different. You were supposed to find my body, call the police, and then the investigation was supposed to establish that it was an accident.”
“What went wrong?”
“Theron screwed up. He hit you too hard. You were unconscious for too long, and when you woke up, you started screaming that you didn’t remember anything. That seemed suspicious.”
“So Theron was the one who hit me?”
“Yes. According to the plan, he was supposed to just lightly stun you so you wouldn’t interfere with the body switch, but the blow was harder than calculated.”
Immi felt a wave of clarity. She finally knew the truth about that night.
“And they decided that if I was charged with murder, it was even better. No one would look for other versions.”
Cairo lowered his eyes guiltily.
“I didn’t want you to go to prison. I thought the lawyer would find a way to prove your innocence.”
“Eight years, Cairo. Eight years of my life.”
“Forgive me.”
“It’s too late for forgiveness. Now tell me, where are the documents you hid in the grave?”
“What documents? I didn’t hide anything in the grave.”
Immi looked at him in surprise.
“Don’t lie. I have your letter to Theron where you write about the agreement regarding the grave and that important documents will need to be retrieved from there in a few years.”
“Show me that letter.”
Immi took the copy out of her bag. Cairo read it carefully and frowned.
“This is not my letter.”
“How is it not yours? The signature is yours—A. Romano.”
“The signature might be mine, but I didn’t write the letter. I never called myself Romano in correspondence with Maxwell. And I didn’t hide any documents in the grave.”
“Then who wrote this letter?”
“I have no idea. But if someone opened the grave looking for documents, that person was mistaken.”
Immi thought about it. So the letter was a forgery. But why would someone need to fake correspondence between Cairo and Theron?
“Cairo, where is Theron now?”
“I don’t know. After the bank robbery, we parted ways. I went to Turkey, he went somewhere in Europe. It’s unknown where. We haven’t communicated since.”
“And how did you split the money?”
“Half and half. Twenty-five million each.”
“And you opened the restaurant business with that money?”
“Yes. What else was I supposed to do? There was no turning back.”
Suddenly, Immi noticed that Cairo was constantly looking around. He was clearly nervous and in a hurry.
“Did you come alone?”
“Yes. Well… in principle, yes.”
“What do you mean, in principle? Listen, Immi, let’s finish this quickly. Give me the documents you have and I’ll sign any confession. Just make it fast.”
“Why are you in such a hurry? Who are you afraid of?”
Cairo didn’t answer, but his anxiety was contagious. Immi looked around and noticed that Naomi was also looking anxiously in their direction.
“Cairo, what’s going on?”
“I was followed from Turkey. Someone found out I was flying to New York. It’s possible they’re here.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the people Theron contacted. Or maybe those same creditors I once hid from.”
At that moment, two men approached their table. Immi recognized them immediately. They were the same people who came to the cemetery and poisoned Victor.
“Cairo Dio,” the tall one with the mole on his cheek said. “What a small world. We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
Cairo turned pale.
“I don’t know you.”
“But we know you—and very well. You owe us money. A lot of it.”
The second, stockier man sat down next to Cairo, blocking his escape path.
“And this, I presume, is your wife?” The tall one nodded toward Immi. “The one who killed you. Funny story.”
“What do you want?” Immi asked, trying to speak calmly.
“We want the money your husband stole from our bank. Fifty million dollars plus interest for eight years. We represent the interests of some investors in the Bank of the Americas. Private investors who don’t like publicity.”
Immi understood that she had walked into a real trap. These people were clearly not joking, and there was no help to be expected.
“I don’t have that much money,” Cairo said. “The restaurant generates income, but not that much.”
“That’s your problem. You have two weeks to find the money.”
“Or what?”
“Or we tell the Turkish police who Alex Romano really is. And at the same time we inform the U.S. attorney’s office where to find the resurrected deceased.”
The tall man took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table.
“Here are our coordinates. Two weeks, Dio. No more.”
The men stood up and left as suddenly as they had appeared. Cairo sat pale and bewildered.
“Who were they?” Immi asked.
“I have no idea. But they know everything about me.”
“Cairo, what if they’re Theron’s people? Maybe he decided to get rid of you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Listen. What if we join forces? You help me officially prove my innocence, and I help you find the real culprits of the robbery.”
“What do you mean, real culprits? You and Maxwell robbed the bank. I’m sure of it.”
“But maybe someone used us. Maybe Theron didn’t even come up with the robbery plan.”
Cairo looked at her thoughtfully.
“You know, now that you mention it, the robbery plan was actually too detailed for Maxwell. He’s not that smart. And also…”
“And also what?”
“When we split the money, he turned out to have more information about banking systems than I expected, as if someone had explained everything to him in detail.”
“So they had another accomplice, possibly. And possibly he’s demanding the money back now.”
Immi realized the matter was much more complicated than she thought. But now she had an ally, albeit an involuntary one, who was interested in exposing the truth.
“All right, Cairo, we’ll work together, but on one condition. You sign a written confession about staging your death right now.”
Cairo nodded.
“I’ll sign it. I have no choice left.”
The next day, Immi and Cairo met in a cheap motel room on the outskirts of New York City. Cairo wrote and signed a detailed confession in which he described the entire scheme of faking his death. The document was notarized. The notary didn’t ask unnecessary questions—for the appropriate fee.
“Now you can go to the district attorney and demand a review of the case,” Cairo said. “You have all the proof of your innocence in my death.”
“Not so fast. First, we need to find out who is behind those threats. Otherwise, they’ll kill you, and I’ll be without a witness again.”
They began to analyze all the available information. Naomi, the private detective, agreed to help them for an additional fee.
“Judging by the behavior of those people, they are professionals,” she said. “They work for large organizations that have access to databases and connections in various departments.”
“What if they are employees of the same bank?” Immi suggested. “Maybe someone from management organized the robbery using Cairo and Theron as executors.”
“Possibly. We need to look into who worked at the bank at that time, who had access to the security systems.”
Detective Naomi spent several days gathering information. The results were interesting. The CEO of the Bank of the Americas, Garrett Fiero, had been fired half a year after the robbery. The official reason: disagreements with shareholders. The unofficial one: suspicion of involvement in the robbery.
“And where is he now?”
“That’s the interesting part. He moved to Cyprus, opened a consulting firm there, lives very richly—although he couldn’t have such official income.”
“And what about the bank’s head accountant?”
“Solange Cassus also resigned. Now she works at a private auditing firm, but her standard of living is also suspiciously high.”
“So half the bank’s management got suddenly rich after the robbery.”
“Exactly. And now listen to the most interesting part. I found information that Fiero and Cassus met with Theron several times, even before the robbery. There are witnesses.”
Immi and Cairo exchanged glances.
“So they were in on it from the beginning,” Cairo said. “They used Maxwell and me as executors and they stayed on the sidelines.”
“And then they decided to get rid of the witnesses and take all the money for themselves,” Immi added. “But how do we prove it?”
Naomi smiled.
“Maybe we don’t have to prove it alone. If my assumptions are correct, Theron is alive and hiding somewhere in Europe. We need to find him and make him talk.”
The search for Theron took another week. Finally, Naomi reported:
“Maxwell Theron is in Montenegro. He lives under the name Mark Theron. He runs a small real estate business, but the amounts in his accounts do not match his declared income.”
“Can we contact him?”
“We can. I have his phone number.”
Immi decided to call Theron herself. He didn’t answer immediately, and his voice was cautious.
“I’m listening.”
“Maxwell, it’s Immi Dio.”
A long pause.
“Immi. But you… you’re in prison.”
“I’m out. I found out the whole truth about that night. I know Cairo is alive. I know about the bank robbery.”
“What do you want?”
“To meet and talk. We have common enemies.”
“What enemies?”
“The ones who forced you to rob the bank. Fiero and Cassus.”
Another pause.
“How do you know those names?”
“I guessed. Maxwell, they are using the same people against Cairo who poisoned the groundskeeper at the cemetery. I think they’re after you too. You know too much.”
Theron was silent, processing what he’d heard.
“What do you propose?”
“We unite. We tell the truth and turn in the real organizers of the robbery.”
“I can’t come back to the U.S. They’ll arrest me.”
“And if you don’t come back, they’ll kill you. Choose.”
“I need time to think.”
“There’s no time. Cairo was given two weeks to find the money. Half the deadline is already over.”
“All right. We’ll meet in a neutral place, in Belgrade, the day after tomorrow night.”
Immi accepted. She didn’t have an international passport, but Naomi promised to solve that problem in a day.
Two days later, the three of them—Immi, Cairo, and Naomi—were sitting in a Belgrade hotel restaurant, waiting for Theron. He arrived an hour late, looking nervous and constantly looking around.
“Maxwell,” Immi greeted him. “Thanks for coming.”
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing,” he said, sitting down at the table. “If they find out I met with you…”
“Who are they? Fiero and Cassus?”
“Yes. They have people everywhere. They know everything that happens.”
“Maxwell, tell us everything from the beginning,” Cairo asked. “Who really organized the robbery?”
Theron was silent for a long time, wrestling with himself. Finally, he spoke.
“It was their idea from the beginning. Fiero approached me in early 2016. He said the bank was in a difficult situation. Shareholders were demanding results and there was nothing to show.”
“And what did he propose?”
“To stage a robbery. To take money from accounts that were officially listed as stolen, but actually to divide it among the participants of the operation.”
“And where did Cairo come in?”
“Fiero said they needed a manager who would help from the inside. Cairo was suitable. He had debts. He could be blackmailed.”
“What debts?”
“He was taking out loans at other banks against fake income certificates. If that came out, he would have gone to jail for fraud.”
Immi looked at Cairo. He lowered his eyes guiltily.
“And why was it necessary to stage your death?” Immi asked her husband.
“That was also Fiero’s idea,” Theron answered. “He said after the robbery, there would be an investigation, checks. If Cairo was still alive, they might start suspecting him. If he died shortly before the robbery, he would be a victim rather than a suspect.”
“But why did they frame me?”
“That wasn’t planned. According to the plan, Cairo’s death was supposed to look like an accident. But when you were arrested, Fiero said it was even better. Fewer questions would be asked.”
Immi felt a wave of rage surge within her. These people not only stole millions, but they calmly watched an innocent woman go to prison.
“And what happened after the robbery?”
“We split the money as agreed, but half a year later, Fiero demanded more. Said he had to be paid extra for silence. I refused. Then he threatened to turn me over to the authorities.”
“And what did you do?”
“I left for Montenegro. I thought it would be safer there, but they found me there too. They are demanding that I hand over everything I have.”
“Maxwell,” Naomi said, “do you have documents that confirm Fiero and Cassus’ connection to the robbery?”
“I do. I kept them as insurance—recordings of phone conversations, email correspondence, bank documents.”
“Then we have a chance,” Immi said decisively. “We collect all the evidence and go to the DA simultaneously in the U.S. and in Montenegro.”
“And if they find us first?”
“They won’t find us. I have connections in law enforcement,” Naomi assured them. “We can arrange witness protection.”
Theron agreed. He had no choice. Either turn in the organizers of the crime or hide from their revenge for the rest of his life.
A week later, Immi was sitting in the office of the district attorney’s investigator in New York City, giving a statement. Next to her was the state-provided lawyer, this time an experienced and principled person.
“Ms. Dio,” the investigator said, studying the documents, “the materials you provided are more than convincing. Your case will be reviewed as quickly as possible.”
“And what about the real criminals?”
“Fiero and Cassus have already been placed on an international wanted list. Their assets have been frozen. I think they will soon be extradited to the U.S. And Cairo and Theron have agreed to cooperate with the investigation. Considering that they came forward voluntarily and helped uncover a larger crime, their sentences will be mitigated.”
A month later, the court officially recognized Immi as innocent of her husband’s murder. The case was closed for lack of evidence of a crime. Furthermore, the court recognized her right to compensation for wrongful conviction. The compensation amount was eight million dollars—one million for each year of illegal imprisonment. It was a huge amount of money for Immi, but it couldn’t bring back the stolen years of her life.
Fiero and Cassus were arrested in Cyprus and extradited to the U.S. The investigation established that they not only organized the Bank of the Americas robbery, but were also involved in several other large heists. They were sentenced to long prison terms. Cairo received a three-year suspended sentence for participation in fraud. Theron got off with two years in a low-security facility.
The people who threatened Cairo and poisoned Victor turned out to be Fiero’s mercenaries. After their employer’s arrest, they disappeared and were not seen again.
Victor recovered completely and continued working as the groundskeeper at the cemetery. When Immi came to say goodbye to him before leaving the city, he said:
“Immi, thank you for not giving up. If it weren’t for you, we would have continued living in fear.”
“Thank you, Victor and Lumi. If it weren’t for your daughter, I would never have found out the truth.”
Little Lumi gave Immi a new drawing. This time, the woman wasn’t next to a grave, but walking down a path toward the bright sun.
“That’s you going toward your new life, Auntie Immi,” the girl explained.
Immi bought Victor and Lumi a studio apartment near the cemetery and bought the girl everything she needed for school. They had become her true family—people who believed in her innocence and helped her achieve justice.
Immi transferred part of her compensation to the legal aid center for the wrongfully convicted, where she also began working as a specialist. She understood that there were many people in the country who, like her, had become victims of judicial errors or criminals.
“Everyone has the right to justice,” she told journalists, “and everyone has the right to a second chance.”
Cairo returned to Turkey with his new family. Before leaving, he met with Immi one last time.
“Forgive me for everything that happened,” he said. “I know words can’t fix what you went through.”
“I forgive you, Cairo. Not for what you did, but for helping to make things right. What will you do next?”
“Live. Truly live, not just exist.”
They parted without regrets. The love that once united them had long since died. But in its place came mutual understanding and forgiveness.
Immi moved to Manhattan and fully dedicated herself to working at the legal aid center. She found new friends, new interests, and a new sense of purpose. The eight stolen years couldn’t be brought back, but she could make sure they weren’t wasted in vain.
Elena Vasquez became her closest friend and assistant at the center. Naomi joined their team as a private detective specializing in finding evidence of innocence. In Immi’s first year of work, the Last Truth Center helped secure the exoneration of seventeen wrongfully convicted people. Every new victory over injustice brought Immi more joy than all the money in the world.
One October day, exactly one year after her release, Immi went back to the city cemetery, but this time not to Cairo’s grave. The unknown man who finally found peace and his name, Dwayne Morales, now lay there. It was established through his tattoo that he had served in the Navy and had disappeared without a trace several years earlier. His mother, whom they found through military records, was finally able to say goodbye to her son.
Immi went to Ayana’s grave, the same older woman who had supported her in prison, and remembered that the truth inevitably rises to the top like oil on water.
“Thank you, Ayana,” she said softly, placing flowers on the modest marker. “You were right. The truth really did surface.”
Next to the grave stood a middle-aged man in a sharp suit. Seeing Immi, he approached her.
“Excuse me. Are you… are you Immani Dio?”
“Yes, I am. And who are you?”
“Marcus King. My wife is serving time for a murder she didn’t commit. I heard about your center and would like to ask for help.”
Immi looked closely at the man. In his eyes, she saw the same pain and despair that once tormented her.
“Tell me about your wife’s case.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time,” Immi smiled. “All the time in the world.”
They walked toward the cemetery exit, discussing the new case. A simple but reliable car was waiting for them behind the fence. On the back seat lay a folder with documents from another case of judicial error. Immi got behind the wheel and looked in the rearview mirror at the receding cemetery. Eight years ago, she had left this place as a broken woman accused of murder. Today she was leaving as a person who had found her calling and was ready to help others in the search for justice.
The car pulled away, heading toward a new life, new cases, and victories over injustice. And in Immi’s pocket still lay the small medallion of St. Teresa, a reminder that the truth triumphs sooner or later, no matter how deep they try to bury it.
Immani Dio’s story ended, but the story of the Last Truth Center was just beginning. And somewhere in the U.S., innocent people were behind bars who still didn’t know that hope existed—the hope that the truth will rise to the surface like oil on water. Because justice is not a luxury but a necessity, and every person has a right to it, regardless of the circumstances.
