( Present )
The office felt colder than usual.
Harshvardhan leaned back in his chair as the man across from him adjusted his tie with deliberate aggression. Tall, narrow-eyed, and immaculately groomed, the man introduced himself as Mahesh Joshi-uncle to the deceased. But more importantly, the spokesperson for the family's political connections. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You have a week , Mr. Harshvardhan," he said, voice level as if quoting the weather. "Then I go to the press."
Harsh tapped his pen against the desk, one beat too long. "We don't take deadlines from civilians."
"I'm not a civilian," Joshi replied smoothly. "I'm a headline waiting to happen."
When he left, Harsh stayed seated, staring at the fingerprint report on his desk-new evidence found on a decorative lamp in Rhea's guest room, something overlooked in the first round. Traceable, yes, but the print was partial. A left thumb. Too faint to identify conclusively. Not hers. Not the victim's. Someone had touched it in the middle of cleaning-and tried to wipe it off.
Almost perfectly.
Almost.
He rose slowly and made the call.
"Aaran," he said, "I need you at the lab. Something... shifted."
---
Aaran examined the fiber under the microscope, lips pursed in faint disappointment. He had already read the report before Harsh had called-he made sure of that. The fiber, blue and synthetic, matched the exact blend used in hospital disposable gloves. Cheap, common, and easily burned. The fingerprint, partial and smudged, wasn't enough to convict. Not yet.
But enough to create a ripple.
That ripple was dangerous.
The lab technician offered to run another scan. Aaran dismissed her with a faint smile and said he'd review the sample himself. Once alone, he switched the slides, noted the lab codes, and corrected the system.
He left no trace.
But something about Harsh's voice that morning-it had lost that slight arrogance. It was uncertain now. Curious.
He's starting to look at her the way I do.
Aaran did not like sharing the way he saw Rhea.
---
The café was overly bright, overrun with people who sipped and scrolled and never looked up. Rhea sat by the window, a muted smile on her face as Kavya checked her phone and Ruhi stirred her iced tea too loudly.
"I got another email," Kavya said. "A blogger this time. Wants a statement. Something about being the only murder mystery writer in the city to have a body show up in her house."
Rhea's smile didn't falter. "And what did you say?"
"That you don't respond to speculative gossip."
"Good." She folded her napkin neatly, aligned it with the edge of her saucer.
"Still..." Kavya frowned. "I think she's digging. She even messaged me on my personal number. Said her name was Neha. Recognize it?"
Rhea looked up just in time to see a woman across the street lower her phone. A silhouette in a denim jacket, standing too still for too long. Then gone.
"No," Rhea said softly. "I don't recognize her."
She stood abruptly. "I need to go. Something just occurred to me."
Kavya blinked. "Now? You're not even halfway-"
But Rhea was already smoothing her hair and heading toward the door.
Ruhi watched her leave, lips pressed in a thin line.
"She's never spontaneous," she said under her breath.
---
Rhea walked quickly, but not too quickly. Her heels tapped against the pavement in practiced rhythm as she glanced behind her once-twice. Nothing. The woman had disappeared into the crowd.
Inside, the quiet of her home was a balm. But the unease lingered. She stood before the bookshelf in her study, fingers brushing titles without focus. That woman had taken a photo. Not just of the café, but of her.
She knelt beside the bookshelf. Behind the row of outdated paperbacks was the slit in the wall she'd carved months ago. A hiding place, never written down. Inside: the flash drive. The phone. The names. Everything she couldn't afford to lose - or be caught with.
Rhea (PoV)
I cleaned everything. I was careful. No one should have known he was even in the house until they found the body.
The windowpane behind her caught her reflection. For a second, she didn't recognize it. Then she blinked, and the mask settled back.
---
That evening, Harshvardhan showed up unannounced.
Rhea answered the door herself, wrapped in a deep blue kurti that brought out the stillness of her eyes. "Detective," she said with a faint incline of her head. "Did I forget an appointment?"
"No," Harsh said. "Just thought I'd pay a visit. May I?"
She stepped aside wordlessly.
He walked slowly through the house. "Someone tried to clean a surface that didn't need cleaning. Just one spot. Left a half print."
"I imagine that happens in many households."
"Not during a murder investigation."
Rhea didn't respond immediately. Her silence was precise, like someone tasting a word before using it. "I have cleaners," she said. "Maybe they panicked. Maybe someone tried to help me."
Harsh turned toward her. "Did you?"
"No," she said calmly.
But he saw it now-her fingers were curled slightly inward, a defensive gesture. Her shoulders taut beneath silk. Just for a second. Just enough.
"You're very good at staying still," he murmured. "Even when things move around you."
She just smiled, but this one didn't reach her eyes.
He left with a nod. No threats. No evidence. Just a crack in the perfect veneer. He could feel her composure breaking like a hairline fracture spreading across glass. Silent. Invisible. Until it wasn't.
---
Later that night, Aaran stood in his own apartment, reading over the surveillance report from the café. One photo had been snapped before Rhea noticed-before she turned. It showed her seated with her friends, chin tilted, expression fixed in that elegant neutrality she always wore in public.
But her eyes weren't looking at anyone.
They were focused through the glass. Straight at the camera.
She had known.
She always knew.
And still-he couldn't look away from the photo. Couldn't delete it. Couldn't stop imagining the split second before the shutter clicked. That flicker of calculation. Of something close to fear.
She doesn't break easily. But she knows she's being hunted now.
He closed the file.
And whispered her name like a secret he hadn't meant to say aloud.
"Rhea."
---
Rhea was home, curtains drawn, the light dim. She sat at her desk, staring at the notes she hadn't updated in days. A plot unfinished. A story with no ending.
A faint sound reached her.
A shutter.
Not from her camera.
She turned, slowly, toward the window. Across the street, in the darkened alley by the bookstore, someone stepped back into shadow. The glint of a phone lens catching light.
Her fingers didn't tremble.
But her breath caught, once.
She rose.
The final line of her notebook read:
---
"No killer is born clean. They're written that way, sentence by sentence."