"Saavni. Blossom Orphanage. Ex-female friend of Darren or enemy?"
I scribbled the words onto the whiteboard with a sharp squeak of my marker. My handwriting was impatient, jagged, like the question itself was an itch under my skin. I capped the marker, tossing it on the nearby table with a soft clatter, and took a step back to study the mess of words that was supposed to resemble an investigation.
In the corner, I'd written "Apartment 204." Circled it with a red marker like it meant something. Beside it: "Dear Diary Serial Killer." I drew a red line from there, cutting diagonally across the board, and connected it to a distant corner where I'd scrawled "Darren's Killer."
That was it. That was all I knew.
The rest? Speculation. Shadow puppets. The killer mind games.
And while I scrambled to catch up, the real killer was somewhere out there — taunting me, tossing me around like some toy in their twisted little game.
My phone buzzed on the edge of the table. I picked it up.
Saavni:
On my way to the restaurant.
Right. I had texted her last night. Just a simple, polite line:
Let's meet. There's something I've been meaning to ask you.
I wasn't going to confront her. Not yet. I wasn't even going to ask about Blossom Orphanage — not directly. I just needed to listen. To fish. To find the thread in her tone that might unravel something. Anything.
I stepped into the bathroom and washed off the night. Steam clung to the mirror as I towel-dried my hair, raking my fingers through it until it looked intentionally messy. I pulled on a black polo shirt with a white trim at the collar, the fabric snug across my shoulders. Then came the black jeans, hugged tight by a dark belt. For flair — and maybe a little superstition — I added my silver knuckle ring and looped a thin chain necklace that fell neatly against my chest.
A glance in the mirror. I looked clean. Sharp. Just the right kind of outfit for an "I want to ask a question" meeting.
I grabbed my keys and headed out.
The moment I stepped from the complex, the two tattooed men from the other day spotted me. Their eyes locked onto mine like cross hairs.
Still watching me.
They looked pissed at me as if I was the cause of whatever challenges they were facing at that moment.
I could be the problem. Maybe.
I should've reported the body. Should've walked into a station, pointed a finger, and spilled the truth. But the world didn't work like that. Not in this city. Not with this case. I had to move smart. Tread lightly. Play the long game.
I gave the two goons a casual nod — the kind that said yeah, I see you too — and slid into my car. As I reached for the ignition, my phone buzzed again.
Oliver.
I groaned. "Not now, man…"
Still, I answered.
"Make it quick," I said as I started the engine. The car growled to life.
But Oliver's voice came fast, anxious. "It's about Saavni."
I blinked, attention split between the road and his words. "What about her?"
He hesitated. "She… didn't exactly ask to meet you." He paused. "She threatened me."
That got me. I hit the brakes gently, pulling the car off to the side, a few miles from the estate's gate.
I let out a slow breath. "Start from the top."
"She said if I didn't set up the meeting between you two, there'd be consequences. I didn't think she was serious at first, but then…"
"But then?"
"She sent Melody a voice message. I wasn't supposed to tell you, but Melody's scared. She just didn't want you to worry."
Too late.
"Forward it to me," I said.
"I—are you sure?"
"Now, Oliver."
The line went dead. A minute later, my phone buzzed again with the audio file. I hit play.
Saavni's voice came through clear. Cool. Calculated.
"This is not a threat, Melody. But take it however you want. I need you to tell me what you know about Sinclair's relationship with Darren. Give me the full details on what he said to you. And if he didn't say much, meet with him and make him talk. Remember, Melody, this is not me asking. The next time I'll need to ask, I'll be showing up at your door — so better do what I demand or simply watch your back."