Neelesh Arora
Part 1: The Widow in Red
The rain had begun at dusk, steady and indifferent, as if the city hadn’t just lost one of its most powerful women. Meher Singh lay sprawled across her marble floor, the crimson pooling around her head like a rose wilting in reverse. Her silk robe, the color of old rubies, glistened under the dim lights of her Walkeshwar apartment. The cordless landline still hung off the hook, mid-call to someone who’d never answered.
Detective Inspector Jayant Rawte had seen worse in his years with the Mumbai Homicide Bureau, but something about this scene felt curated. Not just a murder—this was a message.
He noted the lack of forced entry. The missing CCTV footage. The open wine bottle and two glasses—one half full, one untouched. The scent of jasmine, always Meher’s signature. He checked the time of death with the medical examiner. 9:30 PM. No sign of sexual assault. No struggle. Just a clean blow to the head with a heavy crystal ashtray now lying on the floor, slick with blood.
Two hours later, they arrested her husband.
Rihan Malhotra was found at his friend’s editing studio in Bandra, drinking chai, stubble overgrown and eyes ringed with fatigue. He didn’t resist arrest. Didn’t scream innocence. Just asked one thing: “Can I call someone?”
“Your lawyer?” Rawte had asked, half-smirking.
“No,” Rihan had replied. “My dog’s sitter. I won’t be home tonight.”
The media was on it by sunrise. Filmmaker Husband Butchers Socialite Wife screamed every headline. Meher Singh wasn’t just any socialite—she was the chairperson of a trust that ran five women’s shelters, known for throwing glittering parties and giving biting interviews on prime-time television. Rihan, on the other hand, was her shadow: a man who had made one indie film five years ago and nothing since. The narrative wrote itself.
By Monday morning, Advocate Ananya Mehta stood outside the Mumbai Sessions Court, briefcase in one hand, a cup of strong filter coffee in the other, watching the circus unfold. She was dressed in a slate grey suit, hair tightly knotted, lips bare. No frills, no apologies. She’d defended rapists, politicians, CEOs. She was not in the business of liking her clients. Only in proving what could—or could not—be proved.
This case, however, itched at her.
Rihan had been her batchmate once. Law school. He dropped out in his third year to make films. She remembered him vaguely: quiet, idealistic, bad at moot courts, good at lighting faces during hostel plays. Why had he married Meher? What was the real story there?
She met him in the holding cell. He looked thinner than she remembered, paler too, his wrists chafed from the cuffs. But his voice hadn’t changed.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said simply.
Ananya didn’t flinch. “That’s what they all say.”
“No. I mean I really didn’t. And I know how it looks. I was broke, she had money, we fought. But I left at 8:15. Ask the valet. Ask the watchman. I went to Sohail’s studio. We watched cuts till eleven.”
“Your alibi better hold,” she said flatly. “Because right now, the prosecution has you as the last person seen with the victim, fingerprints on the wine glass, motive out of a Greek tragedy.”
“I didn’t love her money,” Rihan said quietly. “I loved her. Until she stopped seeing me as anything but her project.”
That caught Ananya off guard. There was pain in his eyes, but not panic. A kind of resignation. Or maybe exhaustion.
Later that evening, she reviewed the CCTV footage—or rather, the absence of it. The hard drives were missing. The maid, Mira, was out for the evening. Meher’s best friend claimed they’d spoken an hour before the murder, and Meher had sounded “off.” No signs of break-in. But the wine glass… one had lipstick. The other had a clear thumbprint. Rihan’s.
Too clean.
Ananya knew crime. Knew rage. And this wasn’t rage. This was something colder. Measured.
The hearing was set for Thursday.
And across the city, someone watched the coverage with the sound off, sipping wine from a crystal glass—the same kind Meher used. They smiled, slow and satisfied, as the camera panned to Rihan being led in handcuffs.
Sometimes, justice wasn’t about truth. It was about who got there first.
Part 2: The Alibi
Ananya Mehta’s office sat three blocks away from the Sessions Court, on the third floor of an old South Bombay building that smelled faintly of old paper and damp wood. It wasn’t flashy, but it was efficient. One long teak desk, a whiteboard crowded with names and arrows, and a paralegal named Tara who could recite the Evidence Act backwards.
Rihan’s case was already all over the board.
Tara stood beside it, arms folded, chewing a pencil as Ananya walked in.
“Two glasses of wine. One lipstick, one with his print. No signs of struggle. Valet confirms he left at 8:15, but the prosecution says time of death is between 9:15 and 9:45. They’ll argue he returned.”
“What about his friend Sohail?” Ananya asked, shrugging out of her blazer.
“Studio footage exists, but it has a gap. Between 8:30 and 9:50, the feed goes black.”
Ananya frowned. “Too convenient. Either he deleted it—or someone else did.”
“Or Sohail’s covering.”
“Maybe. But Rihan doesn’t seem the type to script a murder and forget to erase a wine glass.”
Tara raised an eyebrow. “You’re starting to believe him?”
“I’m starting to believe something doesn’t fit.”
In lock-up, Rihan looked worse than he had the day before. A faint bruise bloomed under his eye. The constables had “accidentally” bumped him into a gate.
Ananya didn’t waste time.
“Tell me about your marriage.”
He sighed. “It wasn’t a marriage. It was a transaction that looked like love. She saw potential in me. I saw safety in her. We mistook that for passion.”
“Did you cheat on her?”
“No.”
“Did she?”
He hesitated.
“Yes. Once. Maybe more. She told me during a fight. Said it was punishment for being a ‘ghost husband.’ But I didn’t care. I think by then we were both just actors in a house that didn’t echo.”
“Who else hated her?”
Rihan laughed. “Everyone who ever lost to her. Meher was cruel in polite ways. She destroyed egos with a single compliment. She was brilliant. Dangerous. And lonely.”
Ananya scribbled notes. “Tell me about Sohail. Why would the footage at his studio go missing?”
“Sohail is loyal, but clumsy. He might’ve panicked.”
“Or someone made him panic.”
By Tuesday afternoon, Ananya visited Sohail Kapoor, a thirty-something editor with too many rings and nervous hands. His one-bedroom studio was strewn with hard drives, cigarette butts, and ramen packets.
“I didn’t delete anything,” he said before she even sat down.
“You’re not under suspicion,” Ananya replied calmly. “Yet.”
He shifted in his chair. “Look, Rihan came in around 8:30. We watched rough cuts. I went out to get biryani. Came back, and the feed was blank. Someone tampered. I swear.”
“Who has access to the studio?”
“Only me. But the lock’s not hard to pick.”
Ananya scanned the room. No signs of force. No security at the building gate. “Did Meher ever come here?”
“Once. She hated it. Said it smelled like ambition and disappointment.”
She left, her mind whirring.
Wednesday brought the first pre-trial hearing. The prosecution, led by Advocate Madhav Deshpande, tall and theatrical, walked in with the swagger of a man who believed facts were boring but stories won trials.
He opened with drama: “A husband, a failed man, finds freedom in blood. His wife, the only thing tethering him to mediocrity, lies dead. The evidence is irrefutable.”
Ananya stood slowly. Her voice was quiet, surgical.
“Let us not confuse headlines with proof. My client has an alibi. A broken feed does not a murderer make. Until we have timelines that hold and evidence that breathes truth, this remains what it is—a theory.”
The judge nodded. Trial would begin Monday. Bail denied.
Outside, the press swarmed like vultures. “Did he do it?” they asked. “Is it true he killed her over money?” “Is Ananya defending another monster?”
She said nothing. Just got in the car and shut the door.
Inside, Tara was waiting with something new.
“Call logs,” she said. “Meher had a two-minute call with someone at 9:17 PM. A burner number. It was disconnected an hour later.”
Ananya leaned forward. “Find the tower location. Get me the IMEI. And cross-check it with all her known contacts. I want to know who she spoke to last.”
Tara nodded.
“And Tara?”
“Yeah?”
“Be fast. Someone’s already rewriting this story while we’re still holding the pen.”
Far from the noise, in a flat that looked expensive but soulless, a woman painted her nails blood red and stared at the burner phone she hadn’t thrown away yet. It sat in a drawer next to a photo of Meher and her, smiling at a fundraiser.
“You shouldn’t have called me,” she whispered.
Then she closed the drawer.
And locked it.
Part 3: The Woman in the Frame
The morning of the trial dawned sharp and windless, like the city itself was holding its breath. Ananya arrived at the court early, dressed in a black blazer over white linen—no robes today, just strategy. Rihan was brought in handcuffed, escorted by two constables who looked bored and mildly annoyed. His eyes searched the corridor as if trying to locate a version of his life he’d accidentally misplaced.
Inside the courtroom, every seat was taken. Media filled the last two rows. Cameras weren’t allowed, but the eyes of a nation still burned through the gaps in the door.
Judge Indrani Kaul, tough and no-nonsense, adjusted her glasses and called the session to order. Deshpande stood with a smile too confident to be sincere.
“Your Honor, the prosecution would like to begin with establishing the nature of the relationship between the deceased and the accused.”
Ananya didn’t object. Not yet.
The first witness was the maid, Mira.
Dressed in a simple green saree and shaking slightly, Mira clutched her dupatta as she took the stand.
“Tell us,” Deshpande said smoothly, “how were things between Meher Singh and her husband, Rihan Malhotra?”
Mira looked at Ananya, then the judge, then away.
“They fought sometimes,” she said. “Loudly. Mostly about money. Sometimes about other women.”
“Did she ever seem afraid of him?”
Mira hesitated. “No. Not afraid. But… tired. Like she had to explain everything. Like she was exhausted from caring too much.”
Deshpande raised his eyebrows, pleased.
“And the night of her murder?”
“I was off duty. She told me to take the evening. Said she was having wine with someone.”
Ananya stood up. “Did she mention who that someone was?”
Mira shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Was it unusual for her to drink alone?”
“No. She did it often.”
Ananya nodded. “So, to confirm—you were not present at the time of death, and you can’t confirm who was?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Judge Kaul scribbled something in her pad. Deshpande moved on.
Next came a mutual friend of the couple—Jia Basu, an art curator with ice-blonde hair and a talent for soundbites.
“She was done with him,” Jia said dramatically. “She told me two weeks ago she wanted a divorce.”
“And did she say why?”
“She said he wasn’t the man she married. That he was drowning, and she was tired of lifeboats.”
Ananya leaned forward. “Miss Basu, were you aware of Meher’s financial situation?”
“No.”
“She was broke.”
Gasps rippled.
Jia blinked. “What?”
“She had mortgaged two properties, was liquidating trust funds to keep up appearances, and had defaulted on one of her business loans. We have bank records. Would you like to revise your statement?”
“I—I didn’t know that.”
“So maybe Meher wasn’t the one holding the lifeboat. Maybe she was the one sinking.”
The court murmured.
Judge Kaul banged the gavel. “Control the room.”
When the session adjourned for lunch, Rihan leaned toward Ananya across the partition.
“You didn’t have to do that to Jia.”
“She wasn’t helping you,” Ananya replied. “And in case you forgot, they’ve already started digging your grave.”
Tara met her on the court steps, holding a manila envelope.
“Got the tower data. The burner phone Meher called pinged two towers—one near Walkeshwar, just before the call, and one in Malad West just after. Narrowed the time. We’re cross-referencing tower logs now for likely devices.”
“Good,” Ananya said. “Any matches yet?”
“One. A landline registered to a media PR consultant named Avantika Ray. Used to be a journalist. Worked with Meher a lot. They had a falling out two months ago.”
“Why?”
“No clue yet. But—” Tara paused. “Get this. She filed a harassment complaint against Meher. Claimed Meher tried to leak a private video of her.”
Ananya’s face hardened. “Track her down. I want to know everything.”
That evening, in Malad West, Avantika Ray sipped rosé on her balcony and watched the sun fall behind a skyline of indifferent concrete. The news played faintly behind her.
She picked up a photo from her coffee table. It was from a gala three years ago—her and Meher, laughing, arms slung around each other. Back when trust was easy and friendship didn’t mean leverage.
“You should’ve stayed dead to secrets, Meher,” she whispered.
She flicked ash into an empty wine glass.
Downstairs, a car engine started.
She didn’t notice.
Ananya sat in her office long past midnight, staring at the board. Names, arrows, dates, call logs. At the center, Meher’s photo stared back—poised, powerful, and unreadable.
This wasn’t about a bad marriage. It was about a life full of mirrors. What was Meher hiding? And who hated her enough to kill, yet careful enough to leave no trace?
She picked up the court summons. Tomorrow,
the prosecution would bring in a surprise witness.
Ananya smiled grimly.
She loved surprises.
Even the ones meant to kill her case.
Part 4: The Testimony Trap
Thursday began with sharp light and sharper intentions. Courtroom 7 was already full when Ananya entered, files tucked neatly under one arm, face calm, eyes alert. Rihan gave her a faint nod from the dock—half trust, half fear.
Deshpande was already pacing.
“Your Honor,” he said, hands clasped with the poise of a stage actor about to deliver his final act, “today the prosecution presents a surprise witness. Someone the defense will find… illuminating.”
Ananya didn’t flinch.
Judge Kaul adjusted her glasses. “Proceed.”
A woman in her early thirties took the stand. Long black hair, modest pink kurta, no makeup. She clutched a cloth bag and looked around the room as if she’d never seen one before.
“State your name.”
“Karishma Chauhan.”
“Occupation?”
“I work at Sada Women’s Shelter. Meher ma’am ran it.”
“And your relationship with the accused?”
She looked straight at Rihan.
“I was… involved with him. For four months.”
Gasps. The court stirred like a nest of hornets.
Rihan’s face went pale.
Ananya stood instantly. “Objection. This is character assassination. Unless this directly pertains to the case—”
“It does, Your Honor,” Deshpande interrupted. “Miss Chauhan claims to have been with the accused on the day of the murder—during the very time he claimed to be at Sohail Kapoor’s studio.”
Now even Judge Kaul looked up.
“Proceed. But I’ll be watching the line very closely.”
Deshpande turned to Karishma. “Tell us what happened that evening.”
Karishma lowered her gaze. “He came to my flat at 8:30 PM. We had… drinks. Talked. He was angry. Said she was ruining him. He left around 9:40.”
Silence.
“That contradicts his alibi. He claimed to be at his friend’s editing studio.”
Karishma nodded. “He was lying.”
Ananya narrowed her eyes.
“Miss Chauhan,” she said during cross, “do you have any messages, calls, CCTV, or any proof of this meeting?”
“No. He said we had to keep it secret.”
“Of course. Did you report this to the police?”
“No. I didn’t want to destroy him. But when I saw the news… I couldn’t stay silent.”
Ananya paused. “So let me get this straight. The man you were allegedly in love with, who is now accused of murder, never messaged you, never called, never visited your workplace, and the only person who can confirm this meeting… is you?”
Karishma fidgeted. “Yes.”
“And yet you expect this court to believe you over hard timelines, because you have… feelings?”
The judge raised a hand. “Ms. Mehta, tone.”
Ananya stepped back. “No further questions.”
Karishma left the stand, but not before giving Rihan one last look—something between hurt and pity. Ananya couldn’t tell which one was real.
Back in the defense chamber, Rihan was shaking.
“She’s lying,” he said. “I swear on my mother, I haven’t seen her in months. We had a thing, yes. But I ended it long ago. She was… obsessive.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Well now it does.”
Ananya leaned back in her chair, mind racing. If Karishma’s testimony was true, it blew apart his alibi. If it was false, someone had orchestrated it—cleanly, surgically, and just in time for court.
“Did Meher know about her?” Ananya asked.
“Yes. She found out. Said she’d ruin Karishma’s reputation if I didn’t end it.”
“And did she?”
“No. I begged her not to. Meher agreed. Or at least I thought she had.”
Tara barged in ten minutes later, laptop open.
“I think I found something.”
She placed it on the table.
A Reddit thread. Anonymous, under the relationship subreddit.
Title: “My boss threatened to destroy me because I fell in love with her husband.”
It was dated two weeks before Meher’s death. No names. But the details matched—woman’s shelter, controlling wife, Mumbai.
Ananya read it twice. Then smiled.
“Get the IP. Cross-check with the shelter’s servers. If Karishma wrote this—and it predates Meher’s murder—we can prove motive.”
“And if we can prove motive,” Tara said, “we can raise doubt.”
“Exactly.”
That evening, Ananya visited the shelter unannounced.
Karishma was in the office, alone. She didn’t look surprised.
“I know what you’re doing,” Ananya said quietly. “And it won’t work.”
Karishma didn’t deny it. “She called me names. Treated me like filth. Said I’d never be anything but a girl from a broken home pretending to matter.”
Ananya’s voice was soft but lethal. “And you repaid her by killing her?”
Karishma’s face went still. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Then who did?”
She didn’t answer.
But her silence said enough.
Later that night, Ananya sat at her desk staring at the Reddit post again. She knew there was more. Karishma hadn’t acted alone. Someone had weaponized her pain, fed her the right script, at the right time.
And across the city, in a dark apartment where no photos hung on the walls, someone poured another glass of wine.
The plan was working.
Rihan would hang—not for what he’d done.
But for what he didn’t.
Part 5: The Fault Line
Friday morning arrived with a grey sky and cold wind scraping down the windows of the courthouse. The trial was already a media obsession, and today it spilled onto the streets—cameramen shouting, boom mics hovering like vultures, and news anchors rehearsing soundbites in front of a murder they couldn’t stop romanticizing.
Inside, Ananya sat with her laptop open, cross-checking server data Tara had dug up overnight. The Reddit post was traced to the shelter’s Wi-Fi—specifically, to a terminal in Karishma’s office. Timestamp: 13 days before Meher’s death.
More importantly, a second draft of the same post had been saved as a Word file on her desktop—under a folder titled “Unsent Letters.”
“Gotcha,” Ananya whispered.
But timing was everything.
Too early, and Deshpande could discredit it as emotional rambling. Too late, and the court’s image of Rihan as a manipulative adulterer would cement.
Court resumed at 11:00 a.m.
Deshpande opened with forensic reports—DNA on the wine glass, no foreign fingerprints on the ashtray. Rihan’s prints, Meher’s blood. It all pointed one way.
“The defense would like to request a re-evaluation of the timeline,” Ananya said when her turn came.
The judge raised a brow. “On what grounds?”
“We have reason to believe that the witness presented yesterday—Miss Karishma Chauhan—may have personal motive against the deceased. One supported by written evidence dated prior to the crime.”
Judge Kaul leaned forward. “Evidence?”
Ananya presented the Reddit post and corresponding Word file.
Deshpande objected, “Anonymous internet rants aren’t admissible.”
“They are when you can prove authorship,” Ananya countered. “IP trace, folder location, and machine registration all match. And if necessary, we’ll subpoena the shelter’s IT logs.”
The judge glanced over the documents, then nodded slowly. “I’ll allow it—provisionally. Let’s hear the witness first.”
Karishma was called back to the stand. This time, her composure had cracks.
Ananya began softly. “Miss Chauhan, have you ever used Reddit?”
Karishma blinked. “No.”
“You’re under oath.”
“I mean… maybe once or twice. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember writing a post that says, and I quote: ‘She walks into the shelter like she owns our lives. And maybe she does. But one day, she won’t.’?”
Karishma froze.
Ananya approached the bench, the paper trembling just enough to be noticed.
“We found this on your desktop. Same phrase. Same paragraph. Same file name.”
Karishma’s lip quivered. “That wasn’t—”
“You wrote it, Miss Chauhan. You had motive. You were angry. You were humiliated. And you wanted someone else to pay for it.”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“But you testified that you were with Rihan Malhotra during the murder window—placing him at the scene, alone. Now, with your credibility questioned, the entire timeline begins to collapse.”
Judge Kaul intervened. “Enough for today. We’ll resume Monday.”
Ananya gave Karishma one last glance as she stepped down. The woman looked smaller now. Like a matchstick that had burned too fast, too early.
Outside, Rihan waited in the holding van, cuffed, but hopeful.
“You did good,” he said as Ananya approached.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I still don’t know who’s behind this. And someone is. Karishma may have lied, but she didn’t orchestrate this. She’s not that precise.”
Rihan looked at her for a long second. “You think this is a setup?”
“I think you’re not the story. Meher was.”
Later that night, Tara burst into Ananya’s flat.
“You need to see this.”
She held out a file—a transcript from an old police inquiry. Two years ago, a harassment case involving Meher and a woman named Avantika Ray had been closed abruptly. No charges. No follow-up.
But the notes mentioned something curious.
“Subject threatened to leak personal footage. Complainant’s reputation at risk. Strong political pressure to drop charges. Unclear connection to judge’s family.”
Ananya read the line three times.
“Judge’s family?”
Tara nodded.
“Judge Kaul’s husband was in media consulting. He worked for Meher’s trust. Briefly. Left after a public fallout with Avantika.”
“So Meher had leverage,” Ananya whispered. “And the judge’s husband was collateral.”
The room was silent.
“Should we file a conflict of interest motion?” Tara asked.
Ananya shook her head. “Not yet. If Kaul is compromised, she’ll expect that move. But if we time it right… we can collapse her bias and the case together.”
Elsewhere in the city, Avantika Ray closed her laptop.
She had been watching the live coverage on a private feed.
Karishma had folded too quickly. That was a mistake.
She’d have to clean up.
And next time, she wouldn’t use someone so fragile.
Part 6: The Glass Wall
The weekend brought no rest. For most, it was two days off from work. For Ananya Mehta, it was two days closer to a verdict. She didn’t sleep. Not deeply. The kind of sleep she had now was stitched with suspicion and redacted timelines. Every time she closed her eyes, Meher’s body lay there again—crimson, perfect, wrong.
Sunday afternoon, Tara returned with files from the Media Regulation Bureau. She dropped them on the table with a wince.
“You were right,” she said. “Avantika Ray didn’t just have beef with Meher. She had a whole slaughterhouse.”
Ananya raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“She used to run a digital content company—one that Meher invested in, then pulled out of when it didn’t scale fast enough. Avantika lost money. Reputation. Then the harassment case. Her career crashed. But guess what happened last month?”
“What?”
“She bought a new apartment. Two crores. In cash.”
Ananya sat up. “Where did she get that kind of money?”
“No idea. But the account trail runs cold after a Mauritius-based transfer. Shell companies, offshore accounts. Someone paid her to do something. Or keep something buried.”
Ananya stared at the file, silent. Then she reached for her burner phone. Not her official line—the one she used for favors no one documented.
“Call in that tech guy from my Chennai case,” she said. “Tell him I need access to Avantika’s devices. Full mirror. I want deleted messages, ghost folders, anything that hums.”
Tara nodded.
“And one more thing,” Ananya added. “Find out who bought the wine glasses Meher used. The ones in her apartment.”
“Why?”
“Because the kind of killer who plans a murder this clean doesn’t just use what’s lying around. They plant things. Like fingerprints.”
Monday. Back in court.
Deshpande came in confident, but his edges had dulled. The judge looked tired. Rihan’s eyes, however, were clearer. The noose was loosening.
Today, the prosecution called a crime scene officer.
“The wine glass bore the accused’s prints. Crystal stemware, imported. Identical to the set found in their kitchen.”
“Identical,” Ananya repeated when her cross began. “But not the same glass?”
The officer hesitated. “Not confirmed. It matches the make, model, and purchase year.”
“And when were these glasses last accounted for in Meher’s inventory?”
“Not part of inventory. They were gifts.”
Ananya smiled. “And yet the accused’s prints were on the glass, but none of his DNA was on the rim?”
“Correct.”
“So he touched the glass, but didn’t drink from it?”
“That’s what the evidence suggests.”
“Interesting,” she said. “Because he claimed he was not at the scene. So how did his print get there—unless it was planted?”
Silence.
The officer shrugged. “We cannot confirm or deny that.”
“You just did.”
She returned to her seat. The courtroom was still. Deshpande stared at her like she’d just pulled the bottom card from his stack.
Outside, Ananya sat with Rihan on the bench while court recessed.
“You need to be honest with me,” she said. “Is there anything—anything—you’ve remembered that you haven’t said?”
Rihan looked down.
“There was a man. A month before Meher died. She met him twice. Once at a restaurant, once at our home when I wasn’t there.”
“Name?”
“She never told me. Just said he was ‘old business.’ But after he came, she changed. Started looking over her shoulder. Kept the curtains drawn. Like she knew something was coming.”
Ananya leaned back.
“What if this wasn’t just about you?” she murmured. “What if Meher wasn’t the victim of a jealous husband… but the casualty of a past deal going wrong?”
That evening, Ananya met with her tech contact in a dim South Mumbai café. He was thirty, wore glasses that didn’t quite fit, and called himself “Circuit.”
“I cracked her phone backup,” he said, sliding over a drive. “You were right. Hidden folder. Deleted messages.”
“Anything big?”
Circuit smirked. “You ever seen a threat delivered like poetry?”
He opened a file. It was a message sent to Avantika, a week before the murder.
“Some debts aren’t repaid in silence, A.
Some require blood to even the echo.
Don’t forget who gave you the fire—
or who can burn you with it.”
Ananya read it twice.
“Who sent it?”
“No number. No IP trace. But it matches the writing style of a man named Samar Khanna. Ex-lobbyist. Disappeared two years ago after a scandal.”
Ananya’s blood chilled.
Samar Khanna had been Meher’s biggest enemy. She’d outed him in a sting that shut down a major media-blackmail ring. She thought he was finished.
She was wrong.
That night, Avantika opened her email.
One message waited in her inbox. No sender.
Subject: Are you ready to testify?
Inside, a single line.
“Silence is a fragile lie, Avantika. The glass has already cracked.”
She closed the laptop. And this time, locked the drawer.
But nothing can hold a ghost forever.
Part 7: The Name in the Shadows
Tuesday arrived thick with humidity and tension. Even the court clerks moved slower, like the heat had crawled into their bones. But for Ananya Mehta, the atmosphere was electric. There was a new pulse under the surface now—a name whispered into the folds of a vanishing story.
Samar Khanna.
That single name had turned everything. Not because it proved guilt. But because it proved someone else had the power—and the motive—to play god with timelines, witnesses, and silence.
Rihan sat quietly in the defense box as court resumed, his face unreadable. But Ananya noticed something in his posture. A slight lean forward. The look of a man beginning to believe that truth might have claws sharp enough to cut through lies.
Deshpande was fumbling now, calling minor witnesses who added nothing. Delivery men. Building staff. Each one confirming that Meher had been alone the night of her death—or so it appeared.
But appearances were the prosecution’s favorite weapon.
Midway through the session, Ananya received a text from Tara:
“Confirmed: wine glasses in apartment were not from original set. Purchased separately. Seller ID matches an offshore company linked to Khanna.”
She stood.
“Your Honor, I’d like to submit a request for supplemental discovery. New forensic evidence suggests items found at the crime scene—specifically the wine glass bearing the accused’s prints—were not part of the original household inventory.”
Judge Kaul blinked. “That’s a serious implication, Ms. Mehta.”
“Yes, Your Honor. It suggests someone planted physical evidence to implicate my client. And I believe we are now dealing with a coordinated framing—not a crime of passion.”
Gasps again.
Deshpande stood to protest, but the judge silenced him.
“I want a verified affidavit from your expert by tomorrow. If you’re wrong, Ms. Mehta, I will hold you in contempt. But if you’re right—this entire case could collapse.”
“Understood.”
Court adjourned early.
That night, Ananya sat with Tara in their office, both drained but alert.
“You’re sure about the Khanna connection?” Ananya asked.
Tara nodded. “One of the shell companies that imported the wine glasses? It’s the same one Khanna used to buy off journalists ten years ago. The paper trail is faint. But it’s there.”
“And Avantika?”
“She’s cracking. She’s started searching flights to Dubai.”
Ananya leaned back. “She’s going to run.”
“Should we file a detain order?”
“Not yet. Let her sweat.”
She stared at Meher’s photo again. Not the crime scene image, but a framed one from a charity gala. Meher smiling, flawless, guarded.
“You knew something was coming,” Ananya whispered. “You knew they’d come for you. But you didn’t warn Rihan. Why?”
Elsewhere, in a room lit only by the glow of a laptop, Avantika sat with trembling fingers hovering over a phone.
She dialed a number she hadn’t touched in two years.
It rang once. Then silence. Then a voice—calm, amused.
“You waited longer than I thought,” said the man.
“I can’t do this anymore, Samar,” she whispered. “They’re circling.”
“You already did it, Avantika. All that remains is the ending.”
“I’ll testify. I’ll tell them you paid me. That Karishma lied. That I planted the evidence.”
“You won’t. Because I still have the footage.”
She froze.
“The footage of you and the editor you ruined. The one who overdosed. The one you begged me to clean up. One word from me, and your redemption tour ends with a bullet to the head—your own or someone else’s.”
“Please—”
But the line had already gone dead.
That same night, Ananya’s private line rang.
She picked up without checking the caller.
“Who is this?”
A pause.
Then a voice—female. Fragile. Breathing hard.
“I can’t run anymore. I have to talk.”
“Who is this?”
“Avantika.”
Ananya sat up straight.
“You’re safe. But not for long. If you want to survive—come to my office. Now.”
“I can’t. They’re watching.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
Avantika inhaled sharply.
“It wasn’t about Rihan. It never was. Meher had something—something Khanna couldn’t risk getting out.”
“What?”
“A hard drive. Full of names. Judges. CEOs. Media barons. She called it her ‘insurance’.”
“Where is it?”
“She said… she hid it in plain sight. At the shelter. Behind the framed photo of her mother in the boardroom. She said no one would look there.”
And then the line went silent.
Disconnected.
Or worse.
Ananya stood, heart pounding.
They weren’t just fighting a case anymore.
They were racing a clock.
Part 8: The Drive
Ananya was already in her car before Tara could finish the sentence.
“She called you? Avantika?”
“Briefly. Said Meher hid a drive. At the women’s shelter. Behind a framed photo in the boardroom.”
Tara’s knuckles whitened around the folder she carried. “You think it’s real?”
Ananya didn’t blink. “I think it’s what got Meher killed.”
It was nearly 11 PM. The streets were thin with traffic, the night heavy with anticipation. South Mumbai shimmered like a lie wrapped in glass. And somewhere beneath the shelter’s old whitewashed walls, a truth had waited long enough.
They parked two streets away, lights off. No press. No security.
Only silence.
Ananya pulled out her torch and slid the lock pick from her coat pocket. It wasn’t her first time breaking into a place in search of justice. Hopefully not the last.
The main corridor of the shelter still smelled faintly of incense and damp papers. The framed photo of Meher’s mother hung near the boardroom entrance—an old woman with silver hair and deep, exhausted eyes.
Ananya reached for it.
Behind the frame, the wall was hollowed—carefully cut and sealed again with plaster and white paint.
Tara handed her a flat-head blade.
With one scrape, then two, the edge began to loosen.
Inside, wrapped in black velvet, was a sleek external hard drive.
No label. No scratches.
Just secrets.
They didn’t return to the office. Too risky. Instead, Ananya drove straight to Sohail’s studio. The door opened groggily—he hadn’t shaved in days.
“You owe me,” she said.
“For what?”
“For not dragging you into court for hiding footage.”
He opened the gate wider.
Inside, Tara connected the drive to a laptop wired to an air-gapped machine—no internet, no trace.
It took thirty seconds.
And then it opened.
Folders, all named cryptically: GlassHouse, Atlas, PR37, KiloEcho.
Inside: videos, emails, phone calls. Surveillance. Transactions. Bribes. Recorded calls between industrialists and news anchors. Photos of politicians in rooms they shouldn’t have been in. Even an email chain marked:
Subject: Judge Kaul — Assets Transferred
Ananya’s breath caught. There was everything here—enough to burn the whole system down.
At the center of it all?
Samar Khanna.
And one last folder.
InsurancePolicy_M.
Inside was a short video: Meher Singh, speaking directly into the camera.
“If you’re watching this, I’m probably already dead,” she said. “And if Rihan’s on trial—it means they got to him too. Don’t believe the headlines. Believe the hands pulling the strings.”
Ananya closed the laptop. The room was silent.
“We go public,” Tara said.
“No,” Ananya replied. “We use it in court. On record. So no one can bury it again.”
But someone was already watching.
From a nearby rooftop, a figure leaned back from a sniper lens, whispered into a mic.
“They found it.”
Pause.
“Do we go in?”
“No,” came the reply through the earpiece. “Let them walk it into court.”
Wednesday morning.
The court was packed again. This time, Ananya could feel the shift. The press wasn’t just watching—they were waiting. Deshpande looked worn. Even Judge Kaul seemed more reserved, though she didn’t let it show.
Ananya stood.
“Your Honor, I request to submit new digital evidence. Acquired lawfully, via testimony from a witness under fear of harm. The contents directly impact not just this case—but the integrity of this courtroom.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “Be very sure, Ms. Mehta. This will go on record.”
“I am.”
Ananya walked forward and handed over a USB. One video. Just Meher’s final words.
Judge Kaul inserted it into the screen terminal.
As Meher’s face appeared—tired, clear, unafraid—the courtroom held its breath.
“They’ll try to spin this, like they spun everything else. But Rihan didn’t kill me. I was already marked. By men who couldn’t stand a woman with proof. If the glass breaks—it’s because I shattered it first.”
When the screen faded to black, no one moved.
Not even Deshpande.
Judge Kaul finally spoke. “Court is adjourned until further notice. Defense, remain available for further motions. Prosecution… you may have a crisis of your own.”
Outside, as cameras swarmed and reporters screamed questions, Ananya walked silently beside Rihan.
“You saved me,” he said softly.
“No,” she replied. “Meher did. She just needed someone who was still alive to carry the match.”
Across town, Samar Khanna stood in a hotel suite overlooking the city he once owned.
He smiled as his assistant handed him a fresh passport and a glass of wine.
“Let them scream,” he said. “The story’s not over. It never is.”
And then he disappeared into the night.
Part 9: The Cost of Truth
The footage had already leaked.
By Thursday morning, Meher Singh’s final message was everywhere—on news tickers, digital columns, talk shows. In slow motion and full volume, the words “If Rihan’s on trial, it means they got to him too” played again and again like a final note in a symphony of betrayal.
Some journalists called it bravery. Others called it manipulation. But no one could ignore it.
And Rihan Malhotra was no longer a killer.
He was a witness.
A survivor.
A man caught in the crosshairs of the country’s most carefully hidden machine.
At the Sessions Court, security had doubled. Metal detectors, bag checks, even sniffer dogs. Tara had counted five plainclothes officers she didn’t recognize. Ananya had spotted two more.
“Think they’ll arrest Khanna?” Tara asked, whispering as they walked past the barricades.
Ananya shook her head. “They’ll pretend to look. But Khanna’s gone. By now he’s changed his name, his face, maybe even his citizenship.”
“And Avantika?”
“Missing since Tuesday night.”
“Dead?”
“Or disappeared.”
Inside the courtroom, the atmosphere had shifted completely. Deshpande looked as though he hadn’t slept. He barely met Ananya’s eyes. His notes trembled in his hand.
Judge Kaul entered slowly, her face unreadable.
“Court is now in session,” she said, voice steady.
Ananya stood. “Your Honor, in light of the new evidence and its national ramifications, the defense formally requests the following: (1) immediate dismissal of charges against Mr. Rihan Malhotra; (2) a motion for wrongful prosecution inquiry; and (3) judicial review of all digital materials submitted.”
The judge nodded. “The court accepts the submissions and enters them into record. In light of their nature, the criminal charges against Mr. Malhotra are hereby dismissed.”
Gasps, even a few claps—instantly silenced.
Rihan exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
But Judge Kaul continued.
“However, this court does not ignore the gravity of the implications before us. What we have seen in the past week suggests not just individual malice, but systemic compromise. There will be investigations. Hearings. Possibly, resignations.”
She looked directly at Deshpande.
“And some of us may have to explain how we came to represent power instead of justice.”
Then her gaze fell on Ananya.
“You remind this court what the law was meant to protect.”
She banged the gavel.
“Case dismissed. Court adjourned.”
Outside, the air was chaos. Journalists shouting Rihan’s name. Cameramen chasing Ananya. Protestors holding signs that said Justice for Meher and Down with Khanna’s Circle.
But Ananya kept walking.
She didn’t speak.
Not until they reached the courthouse steps.
Then she turned, faced the media, and simply said:
“Truth has a long memory. Even when you try to kill it.”
Then she walked away.
Later that night, in a safe flat above Marine Drive, Rihan sat staring at the sea. He didn’t speak for a long time. Finally, he turned to Ananya, who sat beside him holding two mugs of coffee.
“I don’t know how to say thank you.”
“Then don’t,” she said. “Just stay alive.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. She died afraid. Alone.”
“No. She died fighting.”
Rihan looked down. “What will you do now?”
Ananya sipped her coffee. “There’s an inquiry. A committee. They want me to lead it.”
“You’ll go after Khanna?”
“I’ll go after the silence. If it leads to him, so be it.”
They sat there a while longer.
The city below them blinked and buzzed, oblivious.
But somewhere far from the lights, a man named Samar Khanna boarded a private jet.
Passport: German.
Name: Jonas Albrecht.
Destination: Unknown.
He looked out the window as the plane took off and said, softly:
“Checkmate, Meher.”
But even he knew—
The board was still open.
And the queen was never truly dead.
Part 10: Echoes After the Verdict
One month later, the corridors of the Mumbai High Court felt different. Not quieter—just older, somehow. As if the marble had absorbed the weight of what had happened between its walls.
Rihan Malhotra had disappeared from the headlines. No longer villain, not quite hero, he now lived in a rented flat in Lonavala, spending quiet afternoons painting—something he hadn’t done in years. He didn’t take interviews. He didn’t post online. He’d told Ananya, once, that fame now tasted like rust.
Ananya, meanwhile, had become the reluctant face of a movement. Parliament was debating whistleblower protections. Two sitting judges had recused themselves from unrelated high-profile trials. A junior prosecutor had submitted a sworn statement about internal pressure to fast-track Rihan’s indictment.
And still, no one could find Samar Khanna.
Or Avantika Ray.
Or the source of the anonymous leaks now appearing across media portals, each one naming a new player in what the press had started calling The Glass Circle.
On a rainy Tuesday morning, Ananya sat in her office, reading an unsigned envelope that had arrived in the mail.
Inside: a photograph.
Grainy. Old.
Meher Singh and Samar Khanna. Smiling. Younger. Standing on the steps of a villa with a third man—blurred, but familiar.
On the back, one line, written in perfect ink:
“It started long before you got here.”
Ananya stared at it for a long time.
Then she slipped it into a folder marked Private—Not for Trial and locked it away.
Some truths were too big for a courtroom.
That night, she walked the city. No destination, no plan. Just the slow rhythm of wet shoes on empty roads.
She passed Meher’s shelter.
It was quiet now. The photo of Meher’s mother still hung inside, still smiling gently.
The new director—a soft-spoken woman named Chhavi—had asked Ananya once if she wanted to take a position on the board.
She’d declined.
“I’m better at breaking doors than holding keys,” she’d said.
But she had donated a small fortune.
Quietly. In Meher’s name.
Not to be remembered.
Just to remember.
Far away, on an island off the coast of Sicily, a man named Jonas Albrecht poured himself a glass of wine.
He turned on the television. Indian news flickered across the screen.
Another leak.
Another name.
Another official stepping down.
He smiled.
And reached for a matchstick.
But before he could strike it—
The power cut out.
Total darkness.
No storm. No wind.
Just the unmistakable sound of silence pressing in.
He turned slowly.
At the edge of the room, a woman stood in the dark.
Her face shadowed.
Her voice calm.
“I told you, Samar,” she said.
“You should’ve finished the story.”
And then the lights returned.
But he was alone.
Or maybe—
He never had been.
The End
