(Continued from the interrogation)
RHEA (Pov)
The ride back was silent. Her editor sat beside her in the back seat, scrolling aimlessly through messages, pretending not to look concerned. Her agent sat up front, speaking into his phone in low tones, already drafting the press statement. Rhea didn't speak. She stared out the window, watching water blur the outlines of the city.
For a second, in the reflection of the glass, she thought she saw her sister.
Not the one from photos.
The real one.
The one who used to bite her lip when nervous, who laughed too loud when she'd had too much coffee. The one who hated being underestimate.
Rhea's fingers closed around the inside of her coat sleeve.
Not now.
Back at her apartment, the air smelled of bleach and damp wood. The cleaning crew had been in. The stain on the floor where the man died was gone, but her mind filled it in anyway.
A clean floor couldn't undo a dirty memory.
Her editor said something about media strategy. Her agent asked about rescheduling the radio interview.
But Rhea's focus was on the creak of her bedroom door. The way it stood slightly ajar.
She hadn't left it like that.
She walked over, pushed it open.
Nothing. Everything exactly where it should be.
Except the subtle shift in the angle of the chair by her writing desk.
He'd been here. Not the killer. The detective.
Aaran.
She let herself sit on the edge of the bed. Her breathing slowed. Controlled.
Harshvardhan had watched her like she was made of questions. Aaran hadn't said much, but he had been there. She could feel it-his gaze didn't linger on her face, it studied it. Not suspicion. Not even judgment.
It felt like admiration.
No-ownership.
She needed to tread carefully now.
Harshvardhan was the one who'd come at her with sharp questions and police bluntness. But it was Aaran who would choose whether she lived free or fell.
And he wasn't finished with her yet.
---
AARAN (Pov)
Harshvardhan dropped the file onto Aaran's desk with the sharpness of a challenge.
"She's not innocent," he said, crossing his arms. "Everything's a little too convenient. She stumbles into the house, finds the body. Friends there to confirm. No fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, no camera footage."
Aaran raised his eyes lazily. "You're right."
That stopped Harshvardhan short.
"I am?"
Aaran leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "She's clean. Too clean. Like someone who knows what evidence looks like-and how to avoid it."
"You think she's done this before?"
"I think she's imagined it before," Aaran murmured. "That's more dangerous."
Harshvardhan opened his mouth, but Aaran held up a hand. "You'll take point on her. Push harder. Visit her again. Ask for inconsistencies. Questions about timelines. Background checks."
"You're assigning me?"
"I'm trusting you," Aaran said smoothly. "You're better at rattling cages. And I need to know how she reacts when someone sees through her."
Harshvardhan's expression shifted-part pride, part determination. He grabbed the file and left.
Aaran stood, walking to the whiteboard at the end of his office.
Rhea Sharma.
Her name, her photo, her books-mocked up as case evidence. Notes beside each: "Writes with surgical precision." "Emotional control masked by poise." "Something personal driving the method."
And now, a new note:
Test begins: Harshvardhan = hammer. I remain the scalpel.
---
RHEA( Pov )
She knew they'd send someone.
She didn't expect Harshvardhan to show up alone the next day.
He arrived with a polite smile, but his eyes didn't match it.
"I just have a few follow-ups. If that's alright," he said, stepping inside before she answered.
Her editor and agent had left an hour ago. She was alone.
"Of course," Rhea said.
He walked through her living room slowly, glancing at shelves, framed photographs, and one conspicuously empty corner .
"Tell me about your sister."
Rhea froze, then smiled politely. "She died ten months ago. You can read about it. There's even a short essay in the Sunday paper. They used it in a grief anthology."
"I did read it," Harshvardhan replied. "You write grief like someone sharpening a blade."
She didn't answer.
"But you've moved on?" he asked.
"I've adapted."
He watched her in silence.
In that pause, she changed the game.
"You came here to provoke me," she said. "But you're not the dangerous one, are you?"
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
She stepped closer, calm as ever. "Your partner. Aaran. He listens. Watches. But you're the one sent forward to stir the water."
Harshvardhan opened his mouth, paused. Something flickered behind his eyes - a hesitation he hadn't meant to reveal. For a second, it seemed like he'd forgotten what he came to say.
"And?" he managed finally, the word landing too flat, like a note struck a little too hard.
Rhea tilted her head, quietly catching the cadence of the question - not his own. That phrasing. The precision. It was Aaran's logic, Aaran's rhythm, Aaran's challenge.
"If he wants to test me," she said, "let him come himself next time."
His brow furrowed. There it was - a crack in the mask. Unease flared just beneath the surface, too brief to linger, but not brief enough to miss.
She was already rewriting the script.
The door clicked shut behind Harshvardhan.
Rhea stood still in the quiet that followed, letting it stretch. The silence wasn't empty - it breathed around her, wrapped her like a second skin. Calm on the surface, but beneath it, something colder stirred.
She turned to the window, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the curtain, and watched his retreating figure cross the street. He didn't look back. Not once. That told her everything she needed.
He had come here armed with questions, with a strategy. But it hadn't been his own.
Aaran.
The name pressed softly at the back of her mind, like the rustle of paper before a fire starts.
She could feel him - just beyond the frame. Watching, collecting, calculating. Harshvardhan might wear the badge, might ask the questions, but Aaran was the one shaping the angles. He was the one she needed to be careful with.
And that, of course, thrilled her.
Not fear - not yet. Something more dangerous. More intimate. Like standing at the edge of a rooftop in the rain and realizing how much you trust your own balance.
She let out a soft breath and moved toward the hall mirror. The same mirror her sister used to linger in front of, running a comb through her long, dark hair, always humming something half-forgotten.
Rhea's fingers paused on the frame.
Her sister's laugh had always come too easily. Trust had been her weakness.
Not mine, Rhea thought.
Not anymore.
She met her own reflection - the faint smile still touched her lips, but her eyes were unreadable. In the soft light, she looked serene. Almost breakable.
But the one behind the glass? She wasn't smiling.
She remembered the moment the scream had caught in her throat that day - not from fear, but calculation. Timing had been crucial. Her agent and editor had played their part beautifully, though unknowingly.
And now Harshvardhan. A minor disruption.
But not insignificant.
He would go back to Aaran. Share his doubts. The flickers he couldn't explain.
And Aaran, in his silence, would try to pull her apart.
Good, she thought. Try.
Let him study her all he liked. She'd already rewritten the script once. She could do it again.
After all, she had written darker endings before.
---
AARAN (Later that night)
"She's baiting me now," Harshvardhan muttered.
"Good," Aaran said, barely hiding the satisfaction in his voice. "Let her."
Harshvardhan shook his head. "I don't like the way she looked at me. Like she knew she was two moves ahead."
"She was," Aaran replied. "And now she thinks she's four."
He turned to the board once more.
Let her believe she's winning. That's when they slip.
And he smiled to himself.
He had more than enough time to catch her when she did.
---