"Then why are we here?" Nkiru asked.
"Because my father kept files. Kunle had insurance against everybody who might turn on him. Sometimes people call that leverage. When you're the person being controlled, it feels more like blackmail."
"And you knew?"
"I knew he liked keeping records. I didn't know how much until investigators took his office computers and I found a backup he'd forgotten about."
"Why give it to me instead of your lawyer?"
Ronke swallowed. "Because your husband's name is everywhere in it. And because I am beginning to understand that benefiting from something doesn't mean you can pretend not to ask where it came from."
Nkiru took the folder but did not open it immediately. She asked why Ronke had insulted an elderly diner that evening, and Ronke looked away toward the cars leaving the garage. "I grew up watching people move when my family walked into a room," she said. "I thought that was what respect looked like. When you refused, I decided to punish you for making me feel ordinary."
She did not ask to be forgiven, which made the apology feel less calculated. Nkiru told her that understanding the harm was a beginning, not the end of responsibility.
The folder contained transaction records from the old financial inquiry, copies of messages between Kunle and other executives, and a subfolder labeled KA08. Nkiru stared at the letters before opening it on her phone. Inside was a laboratory document naming Korede, identified under the surname Adeniran used by Deji's family, and Tobechukwu Eze as an alleged father. The conclusion reported a probability of paternity of 99.9987 percent. Nkiru read it three times, each repetition making the page feel less real.
"Your husband's test wasn't negative," Ronke said. "At least not according to this file."
"Where is the original?"
"I don't know. These are copies from my father's archive. He saved them alongside messages from Dapo's office."
"A copy is not proof the laboratory produced it. Somebody could have created this."
"Then test again. That's what I would do. But don't let anybody tell you the question is impossible to answer."
Nkiru closed the folder and thought of the boy whose photograph she had seen in an old family newsletter. He was wearing a school uniform and smiling beside his mother, unaware that grown people were carrying documents about his identity through parking garages. She told Ronke that Korede was not evidence to be moved between hostile adults. Ronke agreed, her voice unexpectedly soft, and said she had been a child herself when her father began using family secrets as currency. Nkiru understood the point without excusing the cruel things Ronke had chosen to do as an adult.