Dr. Kamsi Onuoha adjusted the stethoscope around her neck and stepped out of the elevator into the quiet corridor of Rosehill Hospital's private gynecology ward. It was her first day, and the scent of antiseptic and fresh-painted walls did little to mask the tension sitting in her chest.
She had transferred here to escape a memory. But somehow, the memory had followed her — silent, painful, and always hovering.
She glanced down at the file in her hand. Room 405. Patient: Adaora Mordi. The referral note was vague — "recurrent miscarriages, unknown cause."
She hated vague cases. They always came with complications. And secrets.
Pushing open the door, she walked in to find a woman sitting upright in bed, too poised for someone reportedly battling multiple losses. Her makeup was perfect. The silk robe wrapped around her petite frame looked more suited for a high-end spa than a hospital room.
And sitting beside her — tall, quiet, eyes that spoke of sleepless nights — was a man. He stood when Kamsi entered, his handshake firm but distracted.
"I'm Dr. Kamsi Onuoha," she began. "I'll be overseeing your case."
Adaora offered a polite smile. "You're the new specialist."
Kamsi nodded and turned slightly toward the man. "And you are…?"
He hesitated. "Chuka. Her husband."
There was a flicker of something in Adaora's eyes. Possessive? Defensive? It vanished too quickly to be sure.
Kamsi went through the routine — vitals, history, questions. But her mind was elsewhere. Not on the patient, but on the man's silence, the way he looked at his wife like he was trying to remember the version of her he once loved.
By the time she left the room, dusk was gathering over the hospital parking lot. She leaned against the wall outside and exhaled. The corridor was quiet, too quiet.
A voice broke the silence.
"You're wasting your time with that one."
She turned to find Dr. Alex Edeh, her former colleague turned reluctant ally. He leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, the ever-present smirk on his lips.
Kamsi narrowed her eyes. "You know her?"
Alex scoffed. "Adaora Mordi? Everyone knows her. And if you're wise, you'll stay far away from that case."
She stiffened. "I'm not here to gossip."
"No," he said, pushing off the wall, "but you are here with secrets. And so is she."
That night, as Kamsi dropped her bag in her apartment and peeled off her lab coat, her phone buzzed. A blocked number. No voice, just silence. Then a whisper — low, hoarse.
"Don't trust her."
The line went dead.
Kamsi stared at the screen, her heart thudding in her ears.
She hadn't told anyone she was handling Adaora's case. Not even the hospital admin.
So how did someone else already know?
The whisper wouldn't leave her mind.
Don't trust her.
Kamsi checked the call log again. Blocked. She played the voice message once more, this time with the volume lowered, as though even the walls might listen. There was no static, no background noise — just that one-line warning, deliberate and chilling.
Who would care enough to call? And why not say more?
She tossed the phone onto her couch and moved to the kitchen, trying to push the unease aside. But it followed her, coiling through her chest with every step. There were always whispers in hospitals — rumors, grudges, half-truths. Still, something about this one didn't feel like hospital gossip. It felt…personal.
Her tea was growing cold in her hands when the flash of memory hit her: a room that smelled of iodine and regret, a man's voice begging her to fix what couldn't be undone, her own voice cracking as she said, "I'm sorry."
She gritted her teeth. That was years ago. Another city. Another life.
Morning
She returned to Room 405 just before rounds. Adaora was awake, flipping through a glossy magazine as if she weren't awaiting fertility results that could change her life.
"I asked the nurse to bring you fresh bloodwork," Kamsi said as she approached.
Adaora nodded without looking up. "It won't change anything. They always say they'll fix me. No one ever does."
Kamsi paused. There was something unsettling about the way she said "they." Like she didn't include herself.
"What about your last specialist? What did they conclude?"
Adaora looked up now, her eyes sharp. "That I should stop trying."
"And yet you're still trying."
A small, dangerous smile curved on her lips. "Hope is a disease. But I'm terminal with it."
The door opened behind them. Chuka entered, quiet as ever. Kamsi caught the flicker in his eyes when he looked at his wife. Distance, not tenderness.
Kamsi turned to him. "Can I ask you a question?"
He nodded.
"When was Adaora's last miscarriage?"
He hesitated.
Adaora cut in sharply, "Last October."
But Chuka frowned, his voice lower. "No. November. The second week. It was raining."
Adaora's lips tightened. "You're confusing the dates."
Kamsi made a note, but not on her clipboard — in her mind.
Later that Day
Dr. Alex found her again. This time in the lab, reading Adaora's hormone panel. "You're digging too deep."
Kamsi didn't look up. "I'm doing my job."
Alex leaned close. "Then be careful. She's not the only one with something to lose."
She met his gaze, steady. "Are you threatening me?"
"No," he said. "But you of all people know how easily careers can end."
That night, the call came again.
Same number. Same voice.
Only this time, it whispered two words:
"She lied."
The phone screen dimmed in her palm.
Kamsi stood frozen in her dark kitchen, the glow of the refrigerator the only light in the room. Her mind raced through possibilities — who was calling her, and why? How did they know about her patient, about Adaora? And what did they mean by "she lied"?
Lied about what?Her symptoms? Her history? Or something far deeper?
She picked up the hospital file again. Something had bothered her since her first review — the ultrasounds didn't match the stated gestational ages in Adaora's record. One scan said six weeks. The note beside it said ten. Then another read five weeks, dated barely three weeks later.
She flipped to the page with the hormonal assessments and paused.
There it was.
Beta-hCG levels too low for a confirmed pregnancy.
Kamsi blinked hard. "How did no one catch this?"
Or… had they, and kept quiet?
The next morning, she arrived at the hospital early. Earlier than usual. She wanted to confront the lab technician who ran Adaora's samples.
But as she turned into the diagnostic hallway, she saw something odd.
The technician — Nnenna — was standing by the shredder, holding a stack of documents. Kamsi couldn't hear what she was saying, but her hands were trembling.
Alex stood beside her, calm, too calm.
Kamsi stepped back and waited until they were gone. When she checked the lab's log book, the entry for Adaora's blood results was still there — but the test requisition sheet was gone.
Gone. Vanished.
That wasn't a mistake. That was deliberate.
Back in Room 405, Adaora greeted her with the same polished calm. But her lips twitched slightly when Kamsi said, "We'll need to repeat all your lab work."
"No need," Adaora said smoothly. "We just did them last week. It's all in the file."
"Yes," Kamsi replied, holding her gaze. "And I suspect what's in the file isn't the whole truth."
Silence.
Chuka stiffened in the corner.
Adaora stared at her, her voice still sugar-coated. "Are you accusing me of something, Doctor?"
"No," Kamsi said, stepping closer. "But I think you're not telling me everything. And if I'm to help you — if I'm to help you at all — I need the truth. From both of you."
Chuka lowered his eyes.
Adaora tilted her head, her voice a whisper. "Some truths are too heavy, Doctor. And some women carry wounds deeper than flesh."
Later that evening, as Kamsi walked through the parking lot, she heard footsteps behind her.
Turning sharply, she found Chuka.
He looked haunted, like a man unraveling.
"She wasn't always like this," he said, voice low. "There was a time she laughed. She prayed for twins. We talked about baby names."
Kamsi waited.
"She... lost a baby. Years ago. But after that… something snapped. Now every month she says she's pregnant. Sometimes she fakes the symptoms. Sometimes she even convinces herself it's true."
Kamsi's heart dropped.
"You mean... she has pseudocyesis?"
"She won't see a psychiatrist. She hates the word 'mad'. I've tried everything, Doctor. Everything."
And then he said something that chilled her to the bone.
"She chose you, you know. Requested you by name."
Kamsi frowned. "What?"
Chuka nodded, almost apologetically. "I didn't know she even knew about you. But when we transferred to Rosehill, she said you were the only one she could trust."
Kamsi's blood ran cold.
Because she had never met Adaora before last week.