The Reverend left his meeting with his apologies—a “family emergency,” he said, which was essentially true.

St. Anthony’s is near the N1 Motorway via Achimota Road, and once Father Tagoe was past the chaos of the Accra Mall cloverleaf interchange, he made good progress to Trosacco Valley. He pulled up at the front entrance of the complex, where the guards recognized him at once as Lady Araba’s father.

“Morning, sah,” the guard said and waved him through. He looked nervous—or was that Tagoe’s imagination?

As Tagoe turned left on Ruby Row and saw a crowd outside Araba’s garden fence, he felt sick. A police officer stood at the driveway entrance. Beyond that point, an old Tata police vehicle and one of the newer Toyota Camry patrol cars were parked in the driveway.

Tagoe stopped the car abruptly and jumped out. The spectators’ eyes turned to him as he ran to the gate, where the officer, a fresh-faced constable, moved to bar his way.

“What’s happened?” Tagoe demanded.

“Who are you, please?” the constable asked.

“Reverend Fifi Tagoe. I’m Lady Araba’s father.”

“Okay, sir.” The constable stepped aside.

Tagoe ran up the driveway and in through the open front door to the entrance hall. He heard voices from the second floor. The staircase was to Tagoe’s right. Two men in conversation stood at the base of the stairs and turned as they saw him approaching.

“Who are you people?” he thundered. “What are you doing here?”

“Your name,” one of them demanded as he reached them.

“Reverend Tagoe.” He was hyperventilating. “Lady Araba’s father.”

The two men exchanged glances. One of them took a step toward Tagoe and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Reverend, your daughter was found dead this morning—”

“What do you mean, dead?” Tagoe said, raising his voice. “How can that be?”

He rushed up the stairs, screaming Araba’s name. A crowd of people doing, it seemed to Tagoe, nothing but standing around staring into Araba’s bedroom, had gathered on the landing. As Tagoe got there, a man blocked the doorway, preventing him from going inside.

But Tagoe could see a few people around Araba’s bed, apparently taking pictures and videos. He also caught a glimpse of someone in the bed—and a lot of blood.

His vision went dark. The next he knew, he was on the floor in the hallway with people above him, shaking him and asking if he was okay.

“What happened?” Tagoe asked, confused.

“You fainted,” someone said.

They began helping him up. He took two unsteady steps toward the room, but several people held him back and the door was now shut. “You can’t go in, sir. They are collecting evidence.”

“Who did this to her?” he said, beginning to break down.

No one responded, because no one knew the answer.