“Then how did the blood get on the wall?” Arjun asked, not looking up.
“She,” Arjun murmured.
“Too theatrical. This killer is precise, not dramatic. The message isn’t for us. It’s a signature. A promise.” Sunday Suspense
Inside, Dev Mitra had been found slumped over his mahogany desk, a glass of wine toppled beside him, and on the wall behind him—written in what appeared to be his own blood—the words: THE THIRD SUNDAY.
Rohan’s eyes widened. “Then whose blood was it?” “Then how did the blood get on the wall
“He bled out from a wound to the wrist first. A slow, deliberate bleed. The carotid cut came after he was already dead. Someone wanted to make sure the message was written in fresh blood—but not his.”
Tonight’s file was thin, almost insultingly so. It contained only three photographs and a single typed sheet. This killer is precise, not dramatic
Arjun took a slow sip. His son, Rohan, now fifteen and dangerously curious, sat cross-legged on the rug. “So, it’s a locked-room mystery, Baba. The killer must have never been in the room.”
