The door clicked shut. A sound so final, so soft, yet it echoed in Vic’s skull like the slam of a prison gate. Or was it the opening of one? He was still on the couch, his body a landscape of ravaged nerves. The air in the room was heavy, humid, carrying the metallic scent of the rain outside and the musky, intimate aroma of sex and power that had just unfolded. It was a perfume that clung to the back of his throat, a tas...

Mrs. Sharon was the kind of neighbor everyone loved. She brought over jollof rice when Vic’s mother was too tired to cook. She laughed at church meetings with the other women, her gele tied high like a crown. To the world, she was a devoted wife, a woman of God, a pillar of the community. But Vic noticed things. The way her eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—would follow him when she thought no one was looking. The way her laughter s...