Devika Chatterjee
Chapter 1
The mist rolled in early that morning, curling like silk threads over the dark waters of Naini Lake. Vihaan Kashyap stood by the promenade, his gloved hands wrapped around a steaming cup of chai from a roadside stall. The scent of pine and damp earth clung to the cold air. It had been three days since he arrived in Nainital, hoping for silence, detachment, and the unfamiliar comfort of anonymity. The lake, rimmed by colonial rooftops and shuttered windows, had offered just that—until now. As he sipped slowly, Vihaan caught sight of the headline splashed across the local newspaper: “Bollywood Star Suhani Rao Found Dead in Lake House Bedroom—Suicide Suspected.” He blinked at the name. Suhani Rao—celebrated actress, media darling, elusive personality. She had retreated from the public eye five years ago without a word. Now, she had returned to the spotlight in death.
The details were sparse but suspicious. The paper reported that Suhani had invited a few close college friends for a private reunion at her summer bungalow perched above the lake. Her body was discovered early yesterday morning by the caretaker, who claimed the bedroom door was locked from the inside. There was no sign of forced entry. No screams were heard. The police were already calling it a suicide—overdose by sleeping pills, with half a bottle of merlot by the bedside. But Vihaan, who had spent a decade untangling crimes that pretended to be something else, felt the familiar itch in the back of his mind. Locked-room deaths were never simple, especially when the victim had vanished from public life, only to reappear in tragedy. He folded the newspaper and began walking uphill toward the lake house, not out of curiosity—but compulsion. A part of him, the part that never fully slept, had already decided this was no suicide.
By noon, the weather had darkened. Clouds brooded above the cedar-lined hilltops as Vihaan approached the wrought-iron gates of Suhani Rao’s estate. The house, once a summer retreat built by a colonial magistrate, now stood cloaked in silence. A police jeep was parked outside, and constables lingered by the porch, chatting idly. One of them squinted as Vihaan approached. “Tourists not allowed beyond this point, sir,” the constable said. Vihaan offered a polite smile and his visiting card—a plain white square with nothing but his name and title: Vihaan Kashyap, Independent Investigator. That was enough to confuse them momentarily, just long enough for Inspector Dinesh Rawat to step out. A stout, unimpressed man with a weathered moustache, Rawat looked Vihaan over with a frown. “You’re that Delhi fellow, aren’t you? The one who solved that hotel case last year?” Vihaan nodded but didn’t elaborate. Rawat sighed. “Look, Mr. Kashyap, appreciate your interest, but this is an open-and-shut suicide. Starlet with past trauma, sleeping pills, locked door, no struggle. Case will be closed by tomorrow.” Vihaan tilted his head. “No broken glass? No strange footprints? No missing objects?” Rawat hesitated for a beat too long. “Nothing worth mentioning.” But Vihaan had already caught the scent—something was off. And if mountain air had taught him anything, it was this: the cleanest places often hid the deepest rot.
Chapter 2
The lake house looked more like a painting than a crime scene—an aging Victorian structure with bay windows, moss-covered eaves, and a wide porch that creaked under every step. Vihaan Kashyap stood just inside the threshold of the front door, letting his eyes sweep across the high-ceilinged hall. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt sandalwood and old wood polish. On the mantle above the fireplace stood a framed photograph—Suhani Rao, luminous even in stillness, laughing among a group of college friends in what looked like a Delhi university canteen. Five other faces crowded beside her: youthful, drunk on nostalgia, unaware that time would one day turn them into suspects. Vihaan felt the shift in the air as he walked up the winding staircase, each step creaking beneath his boots. The housekeeper—a wiry man named Bheema—led him to the master bedroom with visible reluctance, muttering prayers under his breath.
The door had been forced open by the police yesterday. The latch was now broken, the lock splintered, but Vihaan could still see where the deadbolt had slid into the wood—tightly, completely. Inside, the bedroom was large, sterile, and chilling in its symmetry. A canopy bed with white linen stood in the center, untouched since the body had been removed. A half-full bottle of wine rested on the nightstand beside an empty glass, and next to it lay a small vial of sleeping pills. But what drew Vihaan’s eye was the overturned wine glass on the plush carpet—and a wet blot of wine where it had spilled, just inches away from a smudged footprint. It wasn’t part of the official police report, Inspector Rawat had admitted that much with a grunt when Vihaan had questioned him earlier. “Probably hers,” he’d said dismissively. But Vihaan had seen enough death to know: suicides don’t stumble. They surrender. And most importantly, they don’t lock doors behind them with such precision.
He circled the room slowly, noting the details others had missed. The curtains were drawn, but the French window facing the lake wasn’t locked—just lightly latched. A cold gust of wind slipped in when he nudged it open, rustling a torn corner of a paper beneath the dresser. Bending down, Vihaan retrieved it—it was a list, handwritten in blue ink, torn from a journal page. Just six names, scrawled in Suhani’s elegant cursive. Five had been circled. One had been crossed out. No title, no explanation. But the names matched those in the reunion photo downstairs. The sixth name—uncircled, untouched—was Kabir Sen. Vihaan stared at it, his mind already turning. He turned to Bheema, who stood near the door like a ghost. “Did she go out the night before?” he asked. The old man shook his head. “No, sir. Dinner was served at nine. Everyone ate together. Madam came up around ten. She locked the door herself. I heard the bolt slide.” Vihaan looked back at the overturned glass. “Did you hear anything after that?” Bheema hesitated. “A sound. Around midnight. Like a cry… or a laugh. Not sure. Then silence.” Vihaan stood still, staring at the wine, the smudge, the window, the lock. A locked room always lies, he thought. And this one had just begun to whisper its secrets.
Chapter 3
The drawing room where the reunion had taken place was heavy with unspoken tension when Vihaan entered. The same group of six who had gathered that night now sat awkwardly, eyes darting, fingers twitching—each carrying the invisible weight of suspicion. The polished oak table was scattered with empty cups and half-eaten pastries, relics of a night meant for laughter and reminiscence. But laughter had long since fled. Vihaan studied them one by one, noting how old friendships now seemed stretched thin by time and secrets.
There was Dr. Rishi Malhotra, calm and composed in his tailored blazer, but with a flicker of defensiveness whenever Suhani’s name was mentioned. Meher Sheikh, dressed impeccably, spoke with a practiced charm that barely masked her underlying bitterness. Kabir Sen, the quiet photographer, sat at the edge, his gaze intense yet unreadable, fingers constantly fiddling with a silver ring. Ritika Chawla, the baker turned entrepreneur, smiled softly but her eyes shimmered with vulnerability. And two others—silent shadows from their past—avoided meeting Vihaan’s gaze altogether. The detective’s questions probed their memories, stirring dust off forgotten grievances. Old betrayals surfaced like ghosts: a stolen role in a college play, whispered rumors of jealousy, and a cruel prank that left one friend humiliated. Each had reasons—some whispered, some shouted—for harboring resentment.
But beneath the fractured facades, Vihaan sensed a shared secret, something they all protected fiercely. As the afternoon sun dipped behind the mountains, the group’s polished veneer cracked. Accusations surfaced in half-formed sentences; eyes flashed with anger and guilt. The past was no longer a distant shore—it was a storm-tossed sea pulling them all under. Vihaan’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of truth and deception, knowing that within this tangled web lay the answer to how a night meant for reunion had ended in death.
Chapter 4
In the dim light of the lake house’s study, Vihaan carefully pried open an old, ornate drawer beneath the heavy mahogany desk. The surface was littered with photo frames and delicate trinkets—tokens of a life both public and private. Tucked away beneath a stack of unopened letters, he found it: a leather-bound diary, its edges worn and the cover softened by time. The faint scent of jasmine wafted up as he opened it, revealing Suhani Rao’s elegant handwriting sprawling across the pages. The entries were a mixture of poetry, frantic confessions, and cryptic warnings—fragments of a mind wrestling with shadows both real and imagined.
As he read, Vihaan felt the pulse of Suhani’s fear and desperation. She wrote of “whispers behind the smiles,” “ghosts from the past,” and “the weight of secrets that refuse to die.” One entry was particularly chilling: “They think I have forgotten that night. But the screams haunt me still. Every betrayal, every lie, every broken promise.” The diary painted a picture of a woman haunted not just by fame or fading stardom, but by something far darker—an unresolved trauma that linked her tightly to the friends she had invited. The deeper Vihaan delved, the more he realized that Suhani’s reunion was not just a celebration but a reckoning.
Near the end of the diary was a hastily scribbled note: “I’ve recorded everything—the truth that will shatter us all. If anything happens to me, the world must know.” Vihaan’s eyes narrowed. A recording? Was this the missing piece—the reason someone might want Suhani silenced? The diary hinted at a secret pact made years ago, a night none of the friends wished to revisit. Closing the book gently, Vihaan understood that the key to unraveling Suhani’s death lay buried in the tangled web of memories she had tried to preserve. But unlocking it would mean forcing her friends to confront ghosts they’d long tried to forget.
Chapter 5
The fog that evening hung low over the lake, as though Nainital itself were holding its breath. Vihaan sat by the fireplace in the drawing room, Suhani’s diary open beside him, and the reunion group seated once again—less like old friends now, and more like players in an unfolding tragedy. He had summoned them under the pretext of clarity and closure, but his real intent was far more precise. “Tell me about the Delhi theatre festival,” he said quietly, almost too casually. The room stiffened as if struck by cold wind. Rishi was the first to speak, but his tone was rehearsed. “That was years ago. College days. Everyone partied, drank a little too much. Nothing more.” Vihaan didn’t blink. “Suhani wrote that the real play happened off-stage that night.”
There was a pause—uncomfortable, stretching like taut wire—before Meher exhaled sharply. “It was stupid. We were all drunk. There was a prank… someone locked Suhani in the auditorium overnight during a blackout. She thought it was funny—at first.” Kabir shifted uneasily in his chair. “She was terrified,” he said, his voice low, distant. “We thought it would be over in an hour. But no one came to unlock the doors. She screamed so loud the guard finally broke it open at dawn.” Ritika’s eyes welled up. “She never forgave us. None of us owned up. We laughed the next morning like it was nothing.” Vihaan’s gaze turned steely. “You call that a prank? You left her locked alone in pitch darkness for hours. And you think she just moved on?” Silence fell, heavy as snowfall.
“She said she forgave us,” Rishi muttered, “eventually.” But Vihaan had already seen what Suhani had never said aloud. That night had changed her—traumatized her. And in the years that followed, as she rose to fame and the rest faded into ordinary lives, guilt had simmered beneath their reunions and WhatsApp chats. But it wasn’t guilt alone that brought them here. Vihaan revealed a copy of Suhani’s final diary page. “She recorded something from that night. A video, or audio. She was going to make it public.” The room tensed. Someone’s face blanched. A secret, Vihaan realized, more dangerous than guilt still remained. Suhani hadn’t just been traumatized—she had been planning to expose something. And someone in this room had killed her to make sure the past stayed forgotten.
Chapter 6
The morning sun filtered through the lace curtains of the lake house’s guest lounge, casting long shadows on the floor as Vihaan Kashyap scrolled through Kabir Sen’s camera. The man had hesitated when asked to hand it over—his weathered fingers lingering on the strap a moment too long—but finally surrendered it without protest. “I didn’t take anything worth looking at,” Kabir had murmured, his eyes unreadable. Vihaan had heard that line before. In his experience, photographers often captured far more than they realized—especially the ones who tried hardest to forget.
The memory card contained mostly banal reunion moments: Suhani smiling at dinner, Ritika lighting candles by the fireplace, Rishi flipping through old college albums. But Vihaan wasn’t looking for smiles. He was looking for silence—for what the camera caught in the background, on the edges, in the mirrors and shadows. And then he saw it. A photograph taken the night before Suhani’s death. Suhani is seated on the balcony, framed by the moonlight, a glass of wine in her hand. She appears distracted, glancing to her right—but no one else is supposed to be in the frame. Yet in the reflection of the tall window behind her, Vihaan spotted it: a vague silhouette. Tall. Hooded. Standing just inside the room, unmoving, watching her. It wasn’t a trick of the light—this figure had presence. Intent.
Heart pounding, Vihaan enhanced the image, zooming in as far as the resolution would allow. The features remained obscured, but the posture spoke volumes. Someone had been there. Someone who hadn’t been mentioned in any timeline. Someone who had crossed the line between silent guilt and murderous action. The locked-room illusion began to crumble in Vihaan’s mind. What if the killer had entered the room before Suhani locked the door? What if she had known them—trusted them enough to let them in? And what if they had hidden in the room, in the wardrobe or behind the curtains, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?
Vihaan returned to Kabir with the camera, watching his reaction carefully. “Beautiful composition,” he said calmly, showing him the image. Kabir’s face went pale. “I—I didn’t notice that before.” “But you took the shot,” Vihaan said. “You were the only one who had a clear view of her from the garden that night.” Kabir said nothing. His knuckles whitened. “You see,” Vihaan continued, “the camera doesn’t lie. But people do. Often to themselves.” As Kabir fumbled for a response, Vihaan slipped the memory card into his pocket. The killer might have covered their tracks—but they forgot one thing. Every lens has a blind spot, but every shadow tells a story. And in that silent silhouette behind Suhani, Vihaan had found his first whisper of truth.
Chapter 7
The forensics report arrived on a damp afternoon, slipped into Vihaan’s hands by a weary lab assistant from the district hospital. Vihaan read it by the window of his lodge, the lake far below shimmering under gray skies. The cause of death was now certain—not a simple overdose of sleeping pills, but something far more precise. The toxicologist had found traces of Eserine, a rare alkaloid compound derived from the Calabar bean—a neurotoxin that interferes with the nervous system, often causing symptoms similar to overdose: slowed heartbeat, respiratory failure, and eventually death. Colorless, tasteless, and nearly undetectable unless specifically tested for. A poison used not by someone impulsive, but by someone meticulous. Someone who planned to make murder look like suicide.
Vihaan’s mind immediately turned back to the wine. He had already suspected it was tampered with—the overturned glass, the smudged footprint, the unnatural calm of Suhani’s face. Now he had proof. The poison had likely been mixed into her wine, not the pills. Which meant the killer knew her habits well—when she drank, how much, and when she’d be alone. And most importantly, they had access. Eserine wasn’t something found in an over-the-counter bottle. It was rare, potentially illegal, and needed some background in chemistry or medicine. That narrowed his field of suspects dangerously. Dr. Rishi Malhotra, for one, had the medical knowledge. A neurologist, familiar with obscure compounds. But he wasn’t the only one.
Vihaan returned to the lake house that evening. He wandered alone into the old greenhouse, now overgrown and locked for years. Inside, among broken pots and forgotten tools, he found a single open shelf labeled Toxic Specimens – Handle with Gloves. The names of obscure plant species were written in faded ink. One jar was empty. Physostigma venenosum—the Calabar bean. His pulse quickened. The lake house had once belonged to Suhani’s grandfather, a botanist. Could she have kept some of his preserved collection? Or had someone known exactly where to find it? Vihaan now saw the murder for what it truly was: a performance, scripted with precision. The killer hadn’t panicked. They had prepared. They had waited for this moment. And now, the stage was collapsing beneath them.
Chapter 8
The rain tapped gently on the tin roof of the small café nestled in the heart of Mallital, where Vihaan sat across from Ritika Chawla, her fingers wrapped around a mug of untouched coffee. She had called him that morning—her voice quiet, shaking—asking to meet away from the lake house. Now, she looked pale, her eyes ringed with exhaustion, as if she’d been carrying a weight too long. “I didn’t kill her,” she said, almost before he sat down. “But I think I should have told you this earlier.”
Vihaan listened, his hands folded, face unreadable. Ritika glanced once toward the fogged-up windows, then leaned in. “Two weeks before the reunion, Suhani wrote to me,” she began. “A real letter, not a message. Said she was afraid. That someone from the group had been following her, threatening her, trying to stop her from revealing something.” She paused. “She didn’t say who. Just that it was connected to that night in Delhi. She said she had proof—a video file she’d found while going through an old hard drive. She planned to show it to all of us during the reunion. Said she was done keeping secrets.” Vihaan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “Did she mention where the file was?” Ritika nodded. “She said she hid it inside the lake house, in a place no one would think to look. She didn’t trust any of us anymore.”
Vihaan leaned back slowly, thoughts racing. The missing piece was not just emotional motive—it was evidence. A file that proved something terrible had happened that night, something more than just a cruel prank. Perhaps a crime, perhaps a betrayal that went beyond youthful recklessness. “Did you tell anyone about the letter?” he asked. Ritika shook her head. “No. But maybe someone else knew she had it. Maybe that’s why…” Her voice cracked. Vihaan stood, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “Thank you. You’ve done the right thing now.” Outside, the mist had thickened over the streets. Somewhere in that house, hidden in silence or shadow, lay a file worth killing for. And someone in their circle had crossed the line from fear to murder. All that remained was to make them reveal themselves.
Chapter 9
Night had fallen over Nainital like a velvet curtain as Vihaan Kashyap stood once more within the lake house, now stripped of all its former warmth. The shadows seemed longer tonight, the silence thicker. He had gathered them all—Rishi, Meher, Kabir, Ritika, and the two others from the college group—in the same drawing room where laughter had echoed just days before. But now, there was no laughter. Only unease, like a tightening noose. Vihaan placed an old USB drive on the coffee table in front of them. Its plastic casing was scorched, but the label—Rehearsal_2008_Final—was still faintly legible. “Found it inside a broken ceiling fan casing in the attic,” he said softly. “Suhani hid it well.”
The group froze. Ritika gasped. Meher’s hand went to her mouth. Kabir’s eyes darted to the USB like it was a ticking bomb. Only Rishi remained perfectly still, save for the twitch of his left eye. “You lied,” he said quietly, looking at Vihaan. “You told me there was no video.” Vihaan smiled. “I lied to see how you’d react.” He turned to the group. “The file contains a recording from the Delhi festival. Not of the prank. But of what happened after.” His voice dropped. “Suhani didn’t just get locked in. Someone followed her in. Someone who thought she was unconscious from fear and tried to…” He let the words hang. They didn’t need finishing. The silence that followed was deafening. Meher sobbed. Ritika looked away. Kabir stared at the floor. Rishi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She told no one,” he whispered. “And now she’s told everyone.”
Vihaan stepped closer. “Someone in this room knew what was on that file. Knew Suhani was going to show it. Knew their life, their name, their entire career would be ruined.” His eyes settled on Rishi. “A neurologist, with easy access to Eserine. A man who knew precisely how to fake a suicide. And who, despite everything, couldn’t destroy the truth.” Rishi stood abruptly. “She ruined my life first,” he said, voice rising. “She knew what she had done to me! One lie and I was investigated, disgraced, nearly disbarred. And now this? After all these years, she still held it over me—like a goddamn noose.” Meher cried out, “So you killed her?” Rishi’s shoulders dropped. “She wasn’t going to stop. I begged her. I even went to her room. She let me in. Said we could talk. But she already had the wine poured.”
He didn’t need to say more. The room had already absorbed the confession. Vihaan stepped forward quietly and said, “You stayed hidden in that room, didn’t you? Waited. Poisoned the wine, watched her drink, and then slipped out through the balcony before locking the window behind you. You knew she always latched it from the inside later out of habit. You made it look perfect.” Rishi sank into a chair, head in hands. The killer had not been driven by rage—but by the terror of being unmasked. As the constables entered to take him away, the others sat in stunned silence, the sound of the lake just beyond the glass—calm, unknowable, eternal. The house would be quiet again, but it would never be the same. The lake had spoken. And it had remembered everything.
Chapter 10
The dawn after the arrest was the quietest morning Nainital had seen all week. Mist drifted low across the surface of the lake, its stillness unbroken, save for the occasional ripple from a passing duck. Vihaan Kashyap stood alone on the promenade, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching his own reflection shimmer faintly in the water. The investigation was over. The truth had surfaced. Rishi Malhotra was in custody, his confession already making its way to Delhi, where the media would soon devour every word. But for Vihaan, there was no victory here—only the echo of what could have been avoided, had the past not been so carefully buried beneath denial and guilt.
The lake house, now sealed off by the police, stood like a ghost behind him—its windows blank, its walls stripped of glamour. The others had all left quietly that morning, some still numb, some weeping. Meher had hugged him without saying a word. Kabir had handed him the camera, saying he didn’t want to carry memories anymore. Ritika had left a note on the coffee table: “Thank you for listening when no one else did.” But Vihaan didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a mirror—something people only look into when they can’t look away anymore. He pulled Suhani’s diary from his coat and read her last entry again. It no longer felt like the ravings of a haunted woman. It read like a warning the world ignored. And perhaps, in some way, her death had forced the truth to rise from the depths. But at a terrible cost.
As he turned to leave, a light drizzle began to fall—soft, cleansing. Vihaan paused, letting the rain touch his face. He knew he would not stay in Nainital. There were other places to go, other silences to listen to. In his coat pocket, his phone vibrated—a new email. A woman in Mumbai needed help. Her brother had disappeared from a closed train compartment. Another locked-room mystery. Another scar waiting to be revealed. Vihaan smiled faintly. The lake behind him faded into the morning fog, taking with it the final whispers of Suhani Rao. But in the reflection of the water, as fleeting as breath, her smile remained—sad, knowing, free. And somewhere deep below, the lake kept its last secret.
End
