Aaran's Point of View
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The dead didn't vanish. They lingered. Not in the way grieving families imagined - not in warmth or longing or love. No, the dead stayed behind in smaller, colder ways. A cigarette butt smudged near a locked door. A scratch on a floorboard. A question that hovered like breath on a mirror.
And this case had too many of those already.
Aaran traced his gloved fingers over the latest report. Two weeks, and the facts remained the same:
No fingerprints. No forced entry. No signs of struggle except for the victim's body itself. Blunt trauma. Significant blood loss. Psychological collapse. No defensive wounds.
Yet every day brought him back to one house. One woman.
Rhea.
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The Evidence That Refused to Settle
He reviewed the crime scene photos again. Not because he needed to. Because he couldn't stop.
The cigarette. Still unclaimed. The brand wasn't common - imported, expensive, not what the victim smoked. Not what Rhea kept in her home, either. His questions about it had met with mild confusion from her and shrugs from the victim's circle of addicts.
Still, it had been there. Planted? Dropped in fear? Or simply forgotten?
Then there was the ATM footage. Not near her house - farther down, near the alleys where drug deals blurred into shadows. A man, hooded, moving quickly. A bag in hand. No clear features. But the posture, the limp... it resembled someone Aaran had already interviewed.
Aaran circled the image with a red pen. Evidence? Not yet. But suspicion? That lived.
---
Visiting Her Again
He found himself on her doorstep too often these days. Official reasons grew thinner. Follow-ups. Routine.
Rhea met him with the same poise, the same faintly amused eyes. If she felt cornered, she didn't show it. If she feared him, she disguised it beneath soft smiles and calm gestures.
> "Detective," she greeted, as though welcoming a guest, not a man sent to unravel her life.
"I had a few more questions."
"Of course."
Her house bore the same clean sterility as before. No clutter. No dust. No signs of grief except for a small framed photo on a high shelf. Her sister, young and laughing. A contrast to Rhea's measured quiet.
> "That bracelet," he said, nodding. "Your sister's?"
"Yes." She didn't elaborate.
But her fingers paused on the cup she held, just for a breath longer than necessary.
Grief wasn't always loud. Sometimes it hid beneath routines. Sometimes it sharpened into something colder.
---
The Lies Beneath Alibis
The forensic report still frustrated him. The toxicology showed nothing definitive. Whatever drug had paralyzed the victim didn't linger in typical ways. New, experimental, unstable - like everything tied to that circle of addicts he kept circling back to.
Their alibis frayed under scrutiny. One had been near her street. Another had been texting at odd hours. Lies multiplied beneath pressure, and Aaran pressed carefully. He wanted them uncomfortable. He wanted their stories to crack.
Still, none pointed directly to Rhea. That was the brilliance of it, if she was behind it. No evidence touched her. No fingerprints, no fibers, no blood.
But Aaran didn't believe in coincidence. Not anymore.
---
The Obsession Grows
He shouldn't sit outside her house at night. Shouldn't watch the silhouette behind curtains she left just open enough. But he did.
She watched him watching. He knew that now. A game neither admitted to playing.
Through glass, through lies, through silence - they waited. Not for justice. Not for truth. For something darker.
And Aaran? He was tired of waiting.