The humid Goan air clung to everything like a second skin. Even inside the air-conditioned investigation center, the atmosphere felt thick and suffocating. Outside, dark clouds gathered over the Arabian Sea, promising a storm that everyone could feel in their bones. But the real storm was brewing inside this sterile white room, where eleven lives had been shattered by one man's death.
Inspector Ravi Deshmukh stood at the head of the long mahogany conference table, his crisp khaki uniform pressed despite the humidity. His weathered face, carved by twenty years of police service, remained expressionless as he studied the faces before him. Eleven passengers from what was supposed to be a luxury cruise to happiness-now all suspects in a brutal murder.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the room. On the large screen behind Deshmukh, the autopsy report glowed in clinical black and white:
CAUSE OF DEATH: Blunt force trauma to the back of the head DEFENSIVE WOUNDS: None MURDER WEAPON: Unknown object DNA EVIDENCE: Multiple traces found on victim
The list of names that followed made everyone in the room shift uncomfortably: AMultiple DNA samples found on the victim's clothing and fingernails: Aditya Meher, Riya Patel, Nisha Verma, Kabir Mehta, Ananya Mehta, Tanya Kapoor, Aryan Sharma, Meera Sharma, Mr. Gokhale, Mrs. Gokhale, and Kunal Malhotra.
Deshmukh let the silence stretch like a rubber band about to snap. He had learned long ago that silence was a policeman's best weapon. It made guilty people squirm, made them want to fill the void with words, often the wrong words.
Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had seen too much of humanity's darker side.
"Samar Malhotra didn't just slip and fall. Someone killed him. Someone in this room." His eyes moved slowly from face to face. "I've given each of you multiple chances to tell me the truth. But what I have here..." He tapped the forensic file with his finger. "...is a web of lies."
Deshmukh's gaze settled first on Aditya Meher, whose normally confident demeanor had crumbled over the past two days. Aditya's hair was disheveled, his designer shirt wrinkled, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He kept stealing guilty glances at both Riya and Nisha, the weight of his secret affair pressing down on him.
"Ms Riya," Deshmukh's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Tell me again what happened between you and Samar."
Riya, tell me about your interaction with Samar."
Riya's voice came out as barely a whisper. "He... when we were dancing earlier that evening, he tried to touch me. Inappropriately." Her cheeks burned with shame and anger. "I told him to get lost, used some words my mother would not approve of. But he just smiled that horrible smile and said, 'Your fiancé doesn't need to know about this dance, does he?'" just that, and then I left.
"Why did you lie?" Deshmukh asked. " I was scared to tell about this." He nodded, but this can't be the motive for the murder
"Kabir?"
Kabir's voice was hoarse. "He overheard Ananya and me fighting. We thought we were alone on the upper deck, having a private conversation about our relationship problems. But suddenly he appeared like a ghost and started making comments." His fists clenched. "He said things like 'No wonder she's tired of you' and 'Maybe she needs a man who knows how to handle a woman properly.'"
He turned to look at Ananya, who sat hunched in her chair like a wounded bird. "I couldn't let him talk about her like that. So yes, I shoved him. I told him to mind his damn business and stay away from us. But that's all I did. I walked away."
Ananya, with usually bright eyes that now held only sadness, spoke in barely a whisper when Deshmukh prompted her.
"I was crying near the bar," she began, her voice breaking. "Kabir and I had been having problems for months. We came on this cruise, but we came here for our honeymoon, but we ended up fighting instead." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Samar saw me crying and came over. At first, I thought he was being kind. But then he said, 'Some men just don't know how to keep a woman happy. I could show you what you're missing.'"
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I was vulnerable, and he was trying to take advantage of that. I walked away immediately. I never touched him, sir. I couldn't hurt anyone, even someone as horrible as him."
Tanya, what about you? Deshmukh asked her
"He was drunk," she said when questioned. "Stumbling around, bothering everyone. He came up to me and started commenting on my clothes, my makeup, everything. Then he said, 'Girls these days have no class. In my time, women knew how to behave properly." Her voice grew stronger with indignation. "I told him that his time was over, and maybe it was good that attitudes like his were dying out. But I walked away, sir. I didn't touch him."
The elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Gokhale, had been married for forty years. They looked frail and scared, like children lost in a nightmare.
He walked straight up to Mr. Gokhale and slammed the file down on the table between them.
Everyone jumped.
Deshmukh slammed the file on the table, the echo bouncing off the cabin walls.
"Tell me, Mr. Gokhale—what does justice look like after fifteen years?"
Mr. Gokhale looked up slowly, his jaw tightening as he caught sight of the name on the file. Rohit Gokhale.Below it—Cause of death: vehicular homicide.And beneath that—Suspect: Samar Malhotra.
"You remember now?" Deshmukh asked, voice low, dangerous. "Because I do."
Mrs. Gokhale's hand reached for her husband's instinctively. "We didn't know he would be here," she whispered. "We had no idea."
"Oh, come on," Deshmukh snapped. "You expect me to believe that? The man who killed your only child just happens to be on the same cruise as you? And then ends up dead?"
Mr. Gokhale's nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
Deshmukh leaned in closer. "You looked him in the eye, didn't you? You saw him, breathing, laughing, living his best life while your son rots in the ground."
Still, silence.
"I'd want revenge," Deshmukh continued, circling them like a predator. "I'd want to look him in the face and make him pay. Didn't you want that, Mr. Gokhale?"
Mr. Gokhale finally stood, slow and trembling — not from fear, but from rage. "I did want that. Every day for fifteen years. I imagined what I'd say if I saw him again. I imagined worse."
Deshmukh's eyes glinted. "So you did it."
"NO," Mr. Gokhale barked, slamming his fist on the table. "I didn't. We didn't. We spoke to him, yes. We confronted him that night. We told him who we were. And do you know what he said?"
His voice cracked, eyes shining. "He said, 'People die. Accidents happen. Move on.'"
Mrs. Gokhale was crying now, quietly. "He didn't even remember Rohit's name."
Deshmukh's voice softened only slightly. "So you snapped. You followed him. And—"
"We walked away," Mr. Gokhale said fiercely. "We chose not to let him define us again. We went to the lounge. We were there till midnight—ask the Khuranas, the Chatterjees. We didn't follow him."
Deshmukh's gaze was hard. "You hated him."
"I still do," Mr. Gokhale said, breath shaking. "But I'm not a murderer. If I were, I wouldn't have waited fifteen years."
There was a long pause. Deshmukh didn't move, didn't blink.
Then slowly, he straightened and picked up the file.
"You've got your alibi. I'll confirm it. But don't leave the ship."
"We're not running," Mrs. Gokhale said, wiping her tears. "We did that long enough."
The room was still silent as Deshmukh picked up the file. Every pair of eyes stayed locked on the Gokhales. And Mr. Gokhale, now trembling, sat down and lowered his gaze.
They had waited fifteen years for closure. And all they got was a smirk.
But it was Kunal Malhotra's story that silenced the room completely. The young photographer's hands shook as he began to speak, his voice barely above a whisper.
"He was my father."
Tears began to flow down Kunal's cheeks, quiet at first, then unstoppable. Deshmukh sat across from him, watching-not pressing, not interrupting.
"I spent most of my life hating him," Kunal said softly. "And then, somehow, I got him back... just when I thought it was too late."
Deshmukh remained still, letting him talk.
"I didn't even know his full name until I turned eighteen. My mother finally told me-Samar Malhotra. The man who left her. Who left us? And for a long time, I carried that hate like armor. I thought if I ever saw him again, I'd destroy him."
He wiped his face with shaking hands.
"But then she died last year. Cancer. Took her so fast I didn't even get to say goodbye properly. And suddenly... I wasn't angry anymore. I was just empty."
He paused. The silence between his words was thick with emotion.
"I found him three months after she passed. Hired a private investigator, tracked him down in Delhi. I didn't know what I was expecting-a monster, maybe. But he was just a tired old man with too much money and too many regrets."
"How did the reunion go?" Deshmukh asked quietly.
"Awful at first," Kunal admitted. "We screamed at each other. I told him everything-how my mother waited for him, how I grew up watching her cry into a pillow. But he didn't deny it. He didn't excuse himself. He just said... he was sorry. And he said it like he meant it."
His voice broke again.
"We spent the next few weeks trying. Awkward lunches. Phone calls. He told me about his failures, his loneliness. And slowly, I started to see... he was still a bastard in some ways. But he was trying. And I think-deep down-I just wanted a father."
Deshmukh nodded slowly. "And the cruise?"
"A gift," Kunal said. "He booked it. Said it would be a way for us to start over. A father-son trip. Said he owed me twenty years and this was his way of giving some of it back."
Kunal's hands were trembling now, clenched into fists on the table. "And now he's dead. And you think I killed him?"
"Tell me what happened that night," Deshmukh said, his voice still calm but firmer now.
Kunal exhaled shakily. "We had dinner together. We were actually... laughing. Talking about maybe starting a photo gallery. He said he'd invest. And I think-for the first time-I believed we were becoming something close to family."
He looked up, eyes red. "Then he said he needed some air. Said he'd go walk the deck. He didn't come back. The next thing I know, you people are banging on my door saying he's dead. And now you're saying I did it."
"There's physical evidence," Deshmukh said carefully. "Bruising. DNA under the fingernails. A fight, perhaps?"
"We did argue two nights ago," Kunal admitted. "It was about my mother. He said something stupid-he said she should've moved on instead of clinging to the past. I punched him. He deserved it. We both cooled off after. He even apologized the next morning. We were okay."
Deshmukh studied him closely. "So you didn't fight again after that?"
"No. Not even raised voices. He even hugged me at breakfast. He told me he was proud of me, that I'd done well despite everything. I hadn't heard that from anyone in years." His voice cracked again. "You think I would kill him after that?"
Deshmukh didn't answer. But something in his eyes had softened.
"I know it's starting to look that way," Deshmukh said slowly. "But I need more than instinct. I need the truth. And if someone framed you, then that person is still out there."
He rose, gathering the files.
"Sir," Kunal said before he left. "He may have been a terrible husband. A bad father. But he was trying. And someone took that second chance from both of us."
Deshmukh paused in the doorway. "I'm starting to think... you're not the only one who lost something that night."
As the interrogation continued, Deshmukh noticed that Aryan and Meera had been unusually quiet. The married couple sat at opposite ends of the table, avoiding each other's eyes. But there was something else there-a tension that went beyond the current situation.
"Aryan, Meera," Deshmukh called their attention. "You've been very quiet. What was your interaction with Samar?"
Aryan looked uncomfortable. "I tried to avoid him, sir. From the first day, I could see he was in trouble. Meera and I... we came on this cruise to try to save our marriage. The last thing we needed was drama."
"But you did interact with him?"
Aryan hesitated, glancing at his wife. "Briefly. He made some inappropriate comments about Meera. I told him to stay away from us, and I thought that was the end of it."
Deshmukh turned to Meera, "What comments did he make?"
Meera's voice was barely audible. "He... when Aryan wasn't around, he approached me once. He said that I looked like a woman who wasn't getting enough attention at home. He offered to... to show me what a real man could do."
Aryan's face went pale, then red with anger. "You never told me that."
"I didn't want to create more problems between us," Meera whispered. "We were already fighting so much. I thought if I told you, it would just make things worse."
The pain in Aryan's eyes was evident to everyone in the room. Here was a man discovering his wife's secrets at the worst possible time, in the worst possible place.
Deshmukh stood up slowly, his chair scraping against the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. He walked to the window, staring out at the storm clouds gathering over the sea.
"Lies," he said finally, his back still to the room. "Every single one of you has lied to me. Not necessarily about what you did, but about how much you hated him.
About how deep your anger went."
He turned around, his eyes blazing with intensity. "You want to know how I know you're all lying?"
He threw the forensic file on the table, papers scattering. "Your DNA. Every single one of your names is in this report. Not just casual contact DNA-the kind you get from shaking hands or bumping into someone.
No, your DNA was found under his fingernails. On his clothes. On his skin." The color drained from every face in the room.
"DNA that suggests physical contact. Violent physical contact." Deshmukh's voice rose. "So unless you all lined up to give Samar Malhotra a group hug goodbye, somebody is lying about the extent of their confrontation with him."
Meera looked down at her hands, tears falling silently. Kunal's fists were clenched so tightly his hands were shaking. Even the elderly Mrs. Gokhale looked terrified.
"This wasn't a random accident," Deshmukh continued, his voice like steel cutting through the humid air. "This wasn't even a crime of passion. This was a powder keg that had been building all cruise long. Samar Malhotra spent three days systematically destroying the peace of mind of every person in this room. He pushed and pushed until someone finally pushed back-hard enough to kill him."
He walked slowly around the table, like a predator circling its prey. "The question is, who lit the match? Who finally had enough of Samar Malhotra's cruelty and decided to end it permanently?"
The room was so quiet you could hear the air conditioning humming, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore outside.
Later that evening, after the intense interrogation session had ended and everyone had returned to their temporary accommodations, Aryan found himself walking alone on the beach behind the investigation center. The storm clouds had passed without delivering their promised rain, leaving behind a sky full of stars and the gentle sound of waves lapping at the shore.
He wasn't surprised when he heard footsteps in the sand behind him. Somehow, he knew it would be Meera.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, stopping a few feet away from him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about what Samar said to me."
Aryan didn't turn around immediately. Instead, he stared out at the dark ocean, watching the moonlight dance on the waves. "We came here to fix our marriage," he said finally. "But we can't fix anything if we keep hiding things from each other."
"I know." Meera's voice was thick with tears. "I was trying to protect us. Protect what was left of us."
Finally, Aryan turned to face her. In the moonlight, she looked young again, like the woman he had fallen in love with eight years ago. Her hair moved gently in the sea breeze, and her eyes reflected the starlight.
"I miss you," Meera whispered, the words carried by the wind between them.
Something shifted in Aryan's expression. The anger and hurt that had been etched on his face began to soften. Slowly, he reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly.
"I miss you, too," he admitted. "Even when we're in the same room, I miss you."
They stood there in the sand, holding hands like teenagers, listening to the eternal rhythm of the sea. For a moment, the murder investigation, the lies, the secrets-all of it faded away. There was just Aryan and Meera, a husband and wife, trying to find their way back to each other.
"Can we try again?" Meera asked, her voice barely audible above the waves. "After all this is over, can we try to fix what we broke?"
Aryan squeezed her hand gently. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But I want to try. Despite everything, I still love you, Meera. I never stopped loving you."
She stepped closer, and for a moment it seemed like they might kiss-like the old magic might return. But then reality crashed back over them like a cold wave.
"We need to get through this first," Aryan said, stepping back slightly. "We need to get through this investigation, this nightmare. And we need to tell each other the truth. All of it."
Meera nodded, understanding. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. But it was hope. And sometimes, hope was enough to start rebuilding what had been destroyed.
The next morning brought no relief from the tension. Deshmukh had spent the night reviewing evidence, statements, and forensic reports. His years of experi- ence told him that the truth was hiding somewhere in the maze of lies and
half-truths he had heard.
As he gathered the eleven suspects in the conference room once again, he could see the toll the investigation was taking on each of them. Faces were pale, eyes were red from sleepless nights, and the air was thick with anxiety and fear.
"Someone in this room is a killer," Deshmukh announced without preamble.
"Someone here decided that Samar Malhotra's cruelty had gone on long enough. And I'm going to find out who."
He looked at each face around the table-the young lovers Aditya and Nisha, the troubled couple Ananya and Kabir, the fashionable Riya and Tanya, the elderly Gokhales, the estranged son Kunal, and the broken marriage of Aryan and Meera.
"The evidence tells a story," Deshmukh continued. "A story of a man who spent his last days on earth making everyone around him miserable. But evidence also tells me that one of you decided to write the ending to that story."
The investigation was far from over. In fact, Deshmukh had a feeling it was just beginning. The real truth-the final, devastating truth-was still waiting to be uncov- ered.
And when it came to light, it would destroy more than just one person's life. It would shatter the fragile bonds that held this group of strangers together, bonds that had been forged in the crucible of shared suspicion and fear.
The storm that had threatened the night before was nothing compared to the storm that was about to break over this investigation. And Deshmukh knew that before it was over, more secrets would be revealed, more lives would be changed forever.
The web of lies was about to be torn apart, thread by thread, until only the ugly truth remained.
....
Phew. Chapter 7... that was intense, wasn't it? 😮💨We've got secrets unraveling, couples breaking, emotions spilling, and a room full of people who all had a reason to hate Samar Malhotra.But the real question is... who had the guts to actually kill him?
So tell me—🧠 What's your theory?💔 Who do you trust the least?👀 And did that Aryan–Meera beach scene get you in the feels a little?
We're halfway through the investigation... and trust me, it only gets messier from here.Get comfy. Grab snacks. The real storm hasn't even hit yet. 🌊⚡