Tonight’s file was thin, almost insultingly so. It contained only three photographs and a single typed sheet.
Rohan’s eyes widened. “Then whose blood was it?”
The autopsy report arrived just as the church bells tolled six. Arjun scanned it, then went still. “The incision. It was made post-mortem.” 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.
He paused at the door. “Come, Rohan. Let’s go meet a ghost.” Tonight’s file was thin, almost insultingly so
Rohan leaned forward. “A ghost?”
Arjun turned the photographs over. On the back of the last one, in faint pencil, a junior officer had scribbled: Victim’s personal diary recovered. Last entry dated yesterday. Quote: “She visits every third Sunday. I’ve made peace with it.” “Then whose blood was it
“No. A memory. Or a conscience.”