Harshvardhan's eyes remained locked on the investigation board, its cork surface littered with photos, scribbled notes, and red strings like veins connecting the chaos. The dim light overhead cast harsh shadows, deepening the weight of the silence in the room. The smell of cheap coffee lingered; his untouched cup had long gone cold.
He didn't need the coffee. His instincts were wide awake.
> "Sir," his subordinate, Inspector Ravi, spoke from the doorway. "We've confirmed the victim's full identity. Raghav Malhotra. Twenty-nine. Comes from a well-reputed family. Well-known in business circles,
Harshvardhan gave a tired nod, as if he hadn't expected anything less.
> "Pressure's coming from above, isn't it?"
> "Yes, sir. His father's already pulled a few strings. They want this wrapped up. Quickly."
Of course, they did. Powerful people hated messy deaths. It disrupted their sense of control.
> "And what about the scene? Any updates on the house?" Harshvardhan asked.
> "Nothing new, sir. The location's still bothering us. Miss Sharma's house is a bit isolated, as you know. No cameras, no direct witnesses. She claims she chose the place because it's peaceful for writing."
> "And no doubt she enjoys how convenient it is for privacy." Harshvardhan's voice was flat, unimpressed. "Her alibi?"
Ravi flipped through his notes.
> "Solid. She was at a café, sir. With her agent, Kavya Sethi, and her editor, Ruhi Varma. They've confirmed they meet often like this and visiting her home after work sessions is usual .Routine. Nothing suspicious on the surface."
> "Routine," Harshvardhan repeated, almost to himself. "Everything about this feels routine. Too polished. Too clean."
He circled the board, eyes narrowing at the pinned photographs. The body. The blood. The broken expression frozen on Raghav Malhotra's face. Brutality masked beneath precision. Whoever killed him wasn't sloppy. They were deliberate. Efficient. And motivated by something deeper than impulse.
> "You believe it's connected to her writing, sir?" Ravi asked hesitantly.
Harshvardhan's lips thinned.
> "I believe people like Rhea Sharma don't choose to write about murder because it's distant from them." He turned, pointing to the timeline. "She wasn't home. But this wasn't random. The killer knew that house. Knew the timing. Knew her routine."
He tapped his finger twice on Raghav's photo.
> "And why did he come to her house?" Harshvardhan's gaze sharpened. "What's the link? They're calling it a coincidence. I don't believe in coincidences."
Ravi shifted uncomfortably. "We questioned the victim's friends, colleagues, even ex-girlfriends. No known enemies. No one with a grudge. Nothing to tie him directly to Rhea Sharma."
> "Then either we're asking the wrong people... or someone is lying."
Ravi waited in silence as Harshvardhan continued pacing.
> "I want everything on Rhea Sharma," Harshvardhan said at last, his tone clipped. "Not the public face. Not the interviews about her 'brilliant novels.' I want someone who can dig beneath the façade. School records. Neighbors. Old boyfriends. Family. Friends who drifted away. I want to know the things she doesn't say in interviews."
> "Understood, sir."
> "And bring in Forensics again. I want them to re-check the scene for any trace the killer missed. Anything small. Fiber. Hair. Even dust disturbed in the wrong place. Something about this stinks of orchestration."
> "Yes, sir."
Ravi left to carry out the orders, and Harshvardhan remained alone, staring at the red strings as if they might untangle themselves if he glared long enough.
Why her house? Why now? Why him?
Too many questions. Not enough answers. His gut twisted like a snake beneath his ribs.
> "You're hiding something, Miss Sharma," he muttered. "And I'm going to rip it out, thread by thread."
He pinned another note to the board: Background Check Pending.
Then beneath it, in smaller letters:
Trust no one. Especially not her.