The Case of Erica Te by Bethel Okeziri
Synopsis
“Fabulous… Bethel Okeziri has made quite an entrance into the crime fiction scene.” AFRICAN ARTS JOURNAL
“…a crime thriller that thrills indeed.” GEEK DIGEST
“This is the good stuff, no way to put it down till the last sentence.” BOOKAUSE REVIEW
Erika Te, a brilliant cyber security expert and founder of the struggling startup ETC Tech, is forced into desperate measures when her company teeters on collapse. What begins as a risky attempt to survive—launching an OnlyFans account—pulls her into a shadowy world of power, obsession, and betrayal.
When a brutal assassination attempt shatters her sense of safety, Erika stages her own death to vanish from those determined to silence her. But survival comes at a cost: to reclaim her life and save her company, she must unmask the faceless enemy orchestrating her downfall.
As she navigates a labyrinth of digital espionage, hidden agendas, and deadly secrets, Erika discovers that the greatest threat isn’t just to her company—it’s to her very identity. And exposing the truth may be the only way to stay alive.
1
The rain in Aberdeen didn’t fall so much as it drifted sideways, a fine, salty mist coming off the North Sea to coat the granite buildings in a dull, permanent slick.
From the twelfth floor of the high-rise on Guild Street, Erica Te watched the harbour lights blur into smears of amber and neon blue. Below, the city was settling into its Tuesday night rhythm, quiet, cold, and indifferent.
Inside the office of ETC Tech the only sound was the aggressive whir of a cooling fan and the rhythmic clack-clack of Erica’s mechanical keyboard. Her face was illuminated by the harsh
white glow of dual monitors, casting sharp shadows across her high cheekbones.
A final line of code flickered. She hit Enter.
The terminal paused, a cursor blinking like a heartbeat, before the screen flooded with green text: BUILD SUCCESSFUL.
Erica exhaled a breath she felt she’d been holding since 8:00 AM. She leaned back, her spine popping in three places. The office was designed for twelve people, but tonight, the empty ergonomic chairs looked like ghosts huddled around the communal mahogany table. Being a founder meant wearing every hat; today, she was the Lead Dev, the janitor, and the person who forgot to order more oat milk for the fridge.
The digital clock on her taskbar flipped to 21:00.
“Right,” she whispered to the empty room. “Home.”
She didn’t move.
She reached out and slowly clicked the “Shut Down” icon. One by one, the monitors turned to black, reflecting her own tired expression back at her. She stood up, her movements deliberate and heavy. She grabbed her laptop bag, sliding the machine into its sleeve with a sense of finality that felt more like a sentence than a relief.
She walked to the kitchenette, rinsed her mug, and placed it upside down on the drying rack with surgical precision. She straightened a stack of mail on the reception desk. She checked the lock on the balcony door twice, though she hadn’t opened it all day.
Finally, she stood by the main door, her hand hovering over the light switch. Her coat was buttoned to the chin, her keys were gripped tight in her palm, but her feet stayed rooted to the carpet.
Outside that door was the elevator. Outside the elevator was the lobby. Outside the lobby was the walk through the biting wind of the North Pacific to her car, and then the drive to a flat that was too quiet and far too dark.
Erica looked back at her darkened desk. The silence of the office was professional, productive, and safe. The silence waiting for her at home was something else entirely.
With a soft sigh, she finally flipped the switch. The office plunged into darkness, save for the standby light on the printer, blinking red like a warning. She stepped into the hallway and pulled the heavy door shut, the click of the lock echoing too loudly in the vacant corridor.
She didn’t press the elevator button. Instead, she just stood there, staring at the brushed metal doors, waiting for a reason, any reason, to go back inside.
The heavy glass door of the high-rise groaned as Erica pushed it open, stepping out into the biting reality of Guild Street. The air was sharp with the scent of salt and diesel from the harbour just a stone’s throw away.
She had barely cleared the threshold when the silence of the street was shattered.
A high-pitched whine of tires on wet pavement preceded a shadow that tore through the yellow pool of the streetlamps. A cyclist, dressed entirely in dark synthetic fabrics, swerved violently to avoid her. He was so close she felt the displaced air hit her face, a cold backdraft that smelled of old rain and chain grease.
“Watch it!” she gasped, her heart jumping into her throat.
The rider didn’t shout back. He didn’t even look at her. He leaned into a sharp, skidding turn twenty yards down the road, his bike tilted at an impossible angle. It was then she saw it: the charcoal-grey wool of a balaclava pulled tight over his head, leaving nothing but a narrow, shadowed slit for his eyes.
Erica froze. She stood on the pavement, her laptop bag a heavy weight against her hip, watching him.
The bike slowed to a crawl. The rider planted one foot on the ground, pivoted the frame with a practiced, aggressive flick, and faced her. For a heartbeat, they were two silhouettes at opposite ends of a deserted street. Then, he stood up on the pedals and began to pump, accelerating straight back toward the building. Toward her.
The hesitation that had kept her in the office earlier vanished, replaced by a cold, electric jolt of adrenaline.
He’s coming back.
She didn’t wait to see if it was a coincidence or a predatory aim. Erica spun on her heel, her boots skidding slightly on the damp granite. Her fingers, suddenly clumsy and numb, fumbled with the key fob in her pocket.
She slammed her palm against the building’s heavy security door. The magnetic lock gave a sharp, mechanical thunk as her fob swiped the reader. She threw her weight against the glass, slipped inside, and turned just in time to see the bike’s front wheel cross the threshold of the streetlamp glow she had been standing in seconds before.
She didn’t stop to watch through the glass. She lunged for the inner security gate, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches that burned her chest.
The elevator ride back up to the twelfth floor felt agonizingly slow. Erica watched the floor numbers climb—4, 5, 6—her reflection in the brushed steel doors looking pale, her eyes wide and tracking movement that wasn’t there.
When the doors finally chimed, she bolted down the hallway. Her keys jangled like an alarm in the silence. She threw herself into the ETC Tech office, slammed the door, and engaged the deadbolt.
She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, her chest heaving. Think, Erica. Think.
Was she being dramatic? It was Aberdeen. It was 9:00 PM on a Tuesday. Masked youths on bikes weren’t exactly a rare sight near the harbour. But the way he had pivoted… the way he had fixed his sight on her and accelerated… that wasn’t a teenager looking for a shortcut. That was a predator closing the gap.
She moved away from the door, keeping her back to the interior walls, staying clear of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the street. Suddenly, the panoramic view she usually loved felt like a giant lens, exposing her to anyone with a pair of binoculars and a grudge.
She sat at her desk, the blue standby light of her monitor the only thing cutting through the dark. She grabbed her phone. Her thumb hovered over the emergency slider.
“Hello, police? Yes, a man on a bike looked at me on Guild Street.”
She could hear the dispatcher’s polite, bored scepticism already. Without a weapon, a physical assault, or a verbal threat, she was just another tired citizen having a panic attack. They wouldn’t send a car. They’d tell her to go home and lock her doors.
But she couldn’t go back out there. Not alone.
She looked up the internal number for the building’s night shift. It rang four times, long, hollow tones, before a gravelly voice answered.
“Security, Main Desk.”
“Hi, this is Erica Te. From ETC Tech, on the twelfth floor,” she said, her voice betraying a slight tremor. She hated how small she sounded.
“Late one again, Miss Te?” the guard asked, his tone shifting from professional to mildly sympathetic.
“Yes. Listen, I just tried to leave, but there’s a man on a bike, in a balaclava, circling the entrance. He… he came at me. I’m back in my office now.”
There was a pause. She heard the squeak of a chair and the rustle of a newspaper. “A bike, you say? I’m looking at the monitors now. I don’t see anyone on the immediate pavement.”
“He was there thirty seconds ago,” she insisted, her voice sharpening. “Please. I just need someone at the desk. I don’t feel safe walking to my car.”
“Tell you what,” the guard said, his voice dropping into that ‘calming’ register that only made her feel more patronized. “I’ll do a sweep of the perimeter and then I’ll stay right here at the front glass. Give it ten minutes, then come down. I’ll watch you right to your door, alright?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Ten minutes.”
She hung up and stared at the dark office. The silence that had felt “productive” moments ago now felt heavy and suffocating. She reached for her mouse, her hand trembling. She didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, she woke her monitors, the sudden twin squares of white light blinding her for a second.
She didn’t go back to her code. She opened a terminal window and began typing with a frantic, rhythmic speed. Months ago, frustrated by the building’s prehistoric security system, she’d found a vulnerability in their IP camera network. She’d told herself it was “penetration testing practice.” Tonight, it was a lifeline.
Lines of command text blurred past. Access granted.
A grid of grainy, low-light video feeds filled her screen. She bypassed the lobby and the elevators, clicking directly on the exterior “Market Street North” feed.
The street was empty. Just the rain shimmering on the cobbles.
She switched to the “Harbor View” camera. Nothing but parked cars and a distant seagull scavenging near a bin.
Her heart began to slow. Maybe the guard was right. Maybe the biker had just been a thrill-seeker trying to scare a lone woman. She reached for her bag, ready to try the exit again, when something caught her eye on the very edge of the “Alleyway East” feed.
A tire. Just a sliver of a front wheel, tucked deep into the shadows of the loading bay directly beneath her window. He wasn’t gone. He was waiting.
Erica didn’t move for a long minute. She just stared at that sliver of rubber on the screen, hidden in the black throat of the loading bay. He wasn’t some random kid. He was a professional waiting for a target to reappear.
“You’re not catching me that easily,” she whispered, her voice a thin wire of defiance.
She stood and hurried to the storage closet at the back of the office. It was filled with boxes of hardware, old cables, and, thankfully, a stack of leftover marketing swag from a trade show they’d attended last autumn.
She stripped off her tailored wool coat, stuffing it into a cardboard box. In its place, she pulled on an oversized, charcoal-grey ETC Tech hoodie, pulling the drawstrings tight so the hood shadowed her face. She swapped her sleek work boots for a pair of beat-up trainers she kept under her desk for late-night gym sessions. Finally, she grabbed a high-visibility vest from the emergency kit and draped it over one arm. To anyone glancing quickly, she was no longer a tech founder, she was just another tired courier or maintenance worker finishing a shift.
She took a deep breath, grabbed her bag, and killed the monitors. The office went pitch black.
The descent felt different this time. She stood in the corner of the elevator, away from the door’s line of sight, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Clink. The doors opened to the lobby.
The security guard, a burly man named Dave with a fading “Maritime Security” patch on his shoulder, was standing by the heavy glass doors as promised. He looked up from his phone, squinting at her new silhouette.
“Miss Te? Almost didn’t recognize you in the gear,” he said, offering a small, tired smile.
“Just… trying to stay warm,” Erica lied, her eyes already darting past him to the dark street outside. “Is it clear?”
Dave pushed open the door, stepping out first. “Not a soul in sight. I did a lap around the corner. Whoever that lad was, he’s likely moved on to find someone easier to spook.”
Erica followed him closely, almost stepping on his heels. The cold air hit her, but she kept her head down, the hood obscuring her profile. They moved across the damp pavement of Guild Street. Every shadow between the parked cars looked like a crouched figure; every gust of wind sounded like the whir of a bike chain.
She kept her gaze fixed on the loading bay she’d seen on the monitor. It was a cavern of pure shadow now. As they passed it, she felt a prickle of ice down her spine, the distinct sensation of eyes tracking her movement.
“There you go,” Dave said as they reached her car, a modest silver hatchback parked under a flickering streetlamp. “Safe and sound.”
He waited by her driver-side door, his presence a solid, comforting weight. Erica fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped them. She unlocked the car, slid into the seat, and immediately hit the central locking button. The thud of the locks was the most beautiful sound she’d heard all day.
“Thanks, Dave. I really appreciate it,” she called through the sliver of the window.
“No trouble at all. Get some sleep, Miss Te. You’re working too hard.”
He gave a lazy wave and began the short walk back to the building. Erica didn’t start the engine immediately. She adjusted her rearview mirror, staring into the darkness behind her.
The drive from Guild Street toward the south side of the city was usually a time for Erica to decompress, but tonight, the rearview mirror had become her entire world.
As she navigated the automated lights near the harbour and turned onto the Palmerston Roadt, a pair of sharp, LED headlights appeared behind her. They were high up, bright, and perfectly spaced. A black Audi SUV.
It’s just a popular car, she told herself, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Half of Aberdeen drives a black SUV. They’re probably just heading toward Peterhead.
She passed the dark silhouette of the Union Square buildings and hit the long stretch leading toward Riverside Drive. The Audi stayed exactly three car lengths behind. When she sped up to fifty, it matched her. When she hit a patch of standing water and eased off the accelerator, the Audi’s nose dipped as the driver braked in perfect synchronization.
Her breath was coming in short, shallow bursts now. She reached the bridge, the black water of the River Don churning invisibly below. On the other side, the road widened, and she deliberately slowed to forty miles per hour, well below the limit.
The Audi didn’t overtake. It slowed down too, its headlights reflecting off her mirrors and filling her cabin with a cold, intrusive light.
“Please just pass,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Just go home.”
She signalled right, turning into the residential labyrinth of Polmuir ROad. The Audi’s indicator blinked in unison, a rhythmic, amber taunt.
Panic, cold and oily, began to override her logic. She was only minutes from her flat now. She looked at the sat-nav on her dashboard, the little blue arrow pointing toward her sanctuary. But as her hand hovered over the turn signal for her regular route, she froze.
If she went home, they would know where she lived. They would know which window was hers, which door to kick in, and where she slept. The “safety” of her flat suddenly felt like a trap, a box with no exit.
Her mind raced through her options. She could drive to a police station, but the nearest one might be closed to the public at this hour, and she didn’t want to be caught sitting in a dark parking lot. She could call 999, but what would she say? “I’m being followed by a car that hasn’t technically done anything wrong”?
The Audi lurked behind her, a silent, heavy shadow. It felt less like a vehicle and more like a tether, pulling tighter with every meter she drove.
She passed the north entrance of Duthie Park, her heart hammering against her ribs as she kept the car straight. She couldn’t go home. Not yet.
The logic of the “circle test” gave Erica a fleeting, false sense of victory. She took four deliberate left turns through a quiet residential loop about Gairn Terrace. When the Audi’s headlights finally disappeared, continuing straight as she ducked into a side street, she let out a sob of pure relief. Her hands finally unclenched from the steering wheel, though they continued to shake violently.
I lost them. It was just a coincidence. I’m being paranoid, she told herself, the mantra acting as a shield against the lingering dread.
She drove the final mile to her apartment complex with the windows up and the doors locked, her eyes darting to every shadow. The car park was a sea of silent vehicles and pools of yellow light from the overhead lamps. She pulled into her usual spot, killed the engine, and sat in the dark for a full minute, listening.
Nothing but the ticking of the cooling engine.
She grabbed her bag, adjusted the ETC Tech hoodie, and stepped out. The Aberdeen air was even colder now, smelling of wet earth and old stone. The front door of her building was fifty yards away, a brightly lit glass portal that promised a hot shower and a locked door.
She was halfway there, her trainers crunching on the gravel, when the silence shattered.
The attacker didn’t come from a car. He stepped out from behind the brick enclosure of the bin store, a shadow detaching itself from the darkness. He moved with a terrifying, silent efficiency. Erica didn’t even have time to scream before he was on her.
The first blow felt like a heavy punch to her side. It knocked the wind out of her, sending her stumbling against a parked car. Then came the second, and the third, sharp, icy stings that didn’t feel like pain yet, just a shocking, rhythmic intrusion.
“Please—” she gasped, her voice failing as the fourth and fifth strikes landed in quick succession.
The sixth was the deepest.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t reach for her bag or her phone. He simply withdrew the blade, his movements clinical and cold, and vanished back into the shadows of the estate.
Erica collapsed. The pavement was brutally cold against her cheek. She tried to reach for her stomach, but her arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. A strange, blooming warmth began to spread beneath her hoodie, soaking into the fabric, contrasting sharply with the freezing Aberdeen night.
She watched the lights of a distant window in her building. Someone was watching TV. Someone was making tea. They were so close, yet she was miles away, drifting on a tide of gray mist.
The grit of the car park pressed into her skin. The salt air stung her lungs. As her vision began to tunnel, the only sound left was the ragged, wet rattle of her own breath and the distant, fading echo of footsteps running away into the dark.
