Preston thought the black shades—a Prada knock-off—carried an air of mystery that he didn't quite appreciate. He would have much preferred to make direct eye contact rather than trying to discern what lay behind the dark lenses.

"Officer Preston Arina," he introduced himself, offering a handshake. "I need to discuss Dr. Onyancha with you."

Nancy Mwanzi ignored the handshake and with a disapproving look, she said, "Not that it concerns me, but I don't think Elvis warrants any police attention."

"Is it not to my knowledge that it was food poisoning?"

"Cyanide. Yes, it was food poisoning, but I'm sure you are aware of the statistics related to cyanide in poorly prepared cassavas. It's usually unintentional."

Preston was caught off guard by the mention of cyanide. He was not aware of this, or rather, he had not inquired much into the poisoning since he had heard of it. So cyanide it was. But with his existing knowledge, Preston knew that cyanide was not only found in cassava or food products but also in chemical compounds. What if it wasn't the cassava that contained cyanide? Preston wondered if perhaps he was overthinking. Maybe the Doctor's death was a mere accident.

"That's not what I wanted to speak to you about," Preston said.

"What then?"

"Silenced Violence."

Preston watched the start in Nancy's cheeks and the flutter of her brows. "What about it, Officer?" Her voice sounded strangled. She swallowed.

"It is to my understanding that Dr. Elvis was a medical practitioner, why did you interview him on a topic of gender-based violence?"

Nancy Mwanzi began to walk down the concrete-paved path skirted by overgrown yews. Her black maxi dress quivered as a gust of wind blew at them. "Walk with me," she said.

Preston followed along. His steps were quick and eager.

When they both made it past the guarded gate, Nancy turned towards Parliament Lane. The traffic was starting to pick up, and the air was filled with the noise of screeching cars and the smell of carbon pollution. Loud vendors were at it with their products. Enthralling every passerby.

Nancy Mwanzi began to say, "I've known Dr. Elvis Onyacha for a long time. We were close. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same primary and high schools, and our parents knew each other. We go way back."

Nancy crossed a zebra crossing and walked towards the back of the Kenya Power Offices before slowing down near Kencom bus station.

Preston followed behind her, struggling to keep up. Sweat beads formed on his forehead as he loosened the button on his shirt. "You didn't answer my question," he said.

"A few weeks ago when we met for some drinks in Kilimani, I told him about my interest in discussing the increasing cases of gender-based violence (GBV) and its significant impact on the community. I talked of how I'd get the article published online, and maybe get a wider audience and even a wider check. I think it must have been the whiskey because Elvis offered to interview the subject. He claimed that as a doctor, he could provide valuable insights on the topic. And there and there, I took out my notebook."

“What did he talk about?”

“Mostly he spoke of his experience treating patients who were victims of GBV, mostly assault-related injuries and rape cases.”

“Did he in any way speak about Diane Rucho that day?”

Nancy shook her head. “I would have noted if he had. Elvis was careful not to breach any doctor-patient confidentiality. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going.” She stared at a half-full bus pulled at the bus station along the Moi Avenue stage. A crowd was beginning to pile up at the station.

“Just one more question,” Preston urged. “How did the doctor seem after the article came out?”

Nancy tugged at her black shades and removed them. Her eyes were red, the color of blood—sharp and poignant. Her gaze was unpleasant, perhaps too piercing. The skin underneath her eyes was wrinkled, probably because she had been crying.

“He seemed okay, Officer,” she smiled, but Preston had noted the way her face fell when he had asked the question. “I have to get going now.”

As Preston watched her leave, he suddenly remembered where he had seen Nancy Nwanzi before, and in that single moment, all the air must have left his lungs because he was not breathing right.

Back in the parking lot of the Cathedral, Preston found Michael leaning against the hood of the old sedan, his eyes glued to his phone.

"Where did you go?" he asked as soon as he noticed Preston's presence.

Preston opened the car door with the key in his hand. "I was taking a walk with Nancy Mwanzi."

"The journalist?" Michael asked as he sat in the passenger seat. "How did that go?"

"Just as I expected."

"Which is?"

"Diane had visible marks on her wrists. The nurse at Nairobi Hospital had suggested that someone must have been holding her down."

"What are you trying to say, Preston?"

"Diane Rucho was not just assaulted that night, she was also raped," came Preston's response just as he roared the engine to a start. "And Nancy Mwanzi is not a journalist."