The next morning arrived wrapped in the same cold fog that had covered Delhi the night before.
Ria barely slept.
The image of the blood-written words — THE END — kept returning to her mind every time she closed her eyes. It wasn't just the brutality of the crime scene that troubled her. She had seen worse during her years as a detective.
It was the pattern.
Three editors.
Three murders.
Three identical messages.
And the connection to A.K. Mehta, the famous thriller writer who had mysteriously disappeared five years ago.
Ria sat at her desk in the police station, flipping through a thick case file. Newspaper clippings, old interviews, and photographs of Mehta's book launches were scattered across the table.
He had been one of the most celebrated crime writers in India. Readers admired the psychological depth of his stories, and critics often described his novels as disturbingly realistic.
Almost too realistic.
Ria stared at one particular photograph of him. In it, A.K. Mehta stood at a literary event, smiling calmly while holding a copy of his newest novel.
His eyes, however, didn't look like those of a cheerful author.
They looked like someone who knew secrets.
Someone who watched people very carefully.
"Still thinking about him?"
Ria looked up as Vikram entered the room, carrying two cups of steaming chai.
"You look like you haven't slept," he added, handing her one.
"I haven't," she admitted.
He pulled a chair beside her.
"Well, maybe this will wake you up."
"What do you mean?"
Vikram slid a document across the desk.
"Early this morning we received a tip," he said.
"About what?"
"A.K. Mehta's old bungalow."
Ria's eyes narrowed slightly.
"He had a house in Shimla," Vikram continued. "The local police reported that someone broke into it last night."
Ria sat up straighter.
"Was anything stolen?"
"They're not sure yet. The place has been abandoned for years."
She stared at the paper for a moment, her mind already racing.
The murders had started recently.
The house had just been broken into.
The name A.K. Mehta kept appearing everywhere.
Finally, she stood up.
"Let's go."
The drive to Shimla took several hours.
The city slowly disappeared behind them as their car climbed into the winding mountain roads of Himachal Pradesh. The air grew colder, and tall pine trees lined the narrow highways like silent guards.
Mist drifted between the hills, making the landscape feel strangely unreal.
Vikram focused on driving while Ria stared out the window, lost in thought.
"You're quiet," he said eventually.
"I'm thinking."
"About Mehta?"
"Yes."
Vikram sighed.
"Ria, I know the connection is strange, but writers get obsessed fans all the time. Maybe this killer just admires his books."
She shook her head.
"No."
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"This feels different."
"How?"
Ria hesitated before answering.
"Because whoever did this isn't just copying his books."
Vikram glanced at her briefly.
"They're continuing them."
The road curved sharply as they climbed higher into the mountains.
About an hour later, they reached the quiet outskirts of Shimla where Mehta's bungalow stood.
The house looked forgotten.
Tall weeds surrounded the gate, and the wooden fence had begun to rot in several places. The once-white walls were now faded and grey from years of rain and dust.
A police jeep was already parked outside.
A local officer greeted them as they stepped out of their car.
"Detective Malhotra, Inspector Singh," he said politely. "We secured the area as soon as we received the report."
"Good," Ria replied.
"Did you find anything?"
The officer hesitated.
"There's… something inside you should see."
The inside of the bungalow smelled like dust and old wood.
It felt as if the house had been holding its breath for years.
Cobwebs stretched across the corners of the ceiling, and faded furniture sat silently beneath thick layers of dust. The air was cold and still, disturbed only by the faint creaking of wooden floorboards as they walked deeper into the house.
Ria slowly looked around.
"Nothing's been touched?"
"Almost nothing," the officer said.
He led them into a study room.
The moment Ria stepped inside, she noticed something strange.
The entire room was covered in dust.
Except for one place.
A wooden desk near the window.
The officer pointed toward it.
"That wasn't there yesterday."
Ria approached carefully.
On the desk lay a single object.
A manuscript.
The pages were slightly yellowed with age, tied together with a thin red thread.
Vikram picked it up cautiously.
"Well," he muttered, "that's not suspicious at all."
Ria reached for the manuscript and untied the thread.
The first page was blank.
Except for a single letter written in neat handwriting.
R
Her fingers froze.
"What does it say?" Vikram asked.
She turned the page.
The first chapter began with a description of a murder scene.
A silent apartment in Hauz Khas.
A body slumped in a chair.
Three words written on the wall in blood.
Ria's stomach dropped.
"Vikram…" she whispered.
He leaned over her shoulder and read the page.
His expression slowly changed from curiosity to disbelief.
"This is…"
"Yes."
"It's yesterday's crime scene."
The details were exact.
Too exact.
Every detail of Mahesh Arora's murder was described in the manuscript — including things that had never been released to the public.
The room fell silent.
Finally, Vikram spoke.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Now this is impossible."
But Ria wasn't listening.
Because something else had caught her attention.
She lifted the manuscript closer to her face.
"Do you smell that?" she asked quietly.
"Smell what?"
"The pages."
Vikram leaned closer.
There was a faint scent clinging to the paper.
Not dust.
Not ink.
Smoke.
Ria's chest tightened suddenly.
The smell dragged a memory out of the darkest corner of her mind.
Burning wood.
Crackling flames.
Old books turning to ash.
Her heart began to pound.
Slowly, she turned another page.
This time the chapter wasn't about the murder.
It was about a little girl.
A girl who lived in an ashram.
A girl who was afraid of mirrors.
A girl whose father disappeared in a fire.
Ria's hands began to shake.
She stepped backward, dropping the manuscript onto the desk.
"What is this?" Vikram asked.
Her voice came out as barely a whisper.
"I… don't know."
But deep inside, a quiet, terrifying thought had already begun to form.
Somewhere, someone wasn't just writing about the murders.
They were writing about her.
And somehow…
They knew her past.