They said grief made you clumsy. Forgetful. Slow.
Rhea smiled faintly at that, the kind of smile you hide behind a hand or a teacup. Grief wasn't messy, not if you knew how to carry it properly. Like anything sharp, it belonged in careful hands.
The police had already been through the house twice. Photographs, fingerprints, files closed with quiet sympathy. The forensics team had scrubbed the floor so clean she could see her reflection where his body had been. Red had stained the tiles for hours, maybe days, beneath their gloves and chemicals.
She hadn't screamed when she found him. Not then. Not now. She'd stood still, observing. That part hadn't been rehearsed; instinct had written it for her.
Detective Aaran Digvijay returned today.
He watched her from across the room as if she might reveal something between one breath and the next.
"You write crime novels, don't you?" he asked at last, breaking the careful silence.
His voice was even, polite, but Rhea heard the weight beneath it. Curiosity sharpened with suspicion.
"I do," she said simply. "Thrillers, mostly."
Her fingers rested lightly on the spine of the book beside her, one of her own. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
"Does this feel... familiar to you? Like something you've written before?"
He sounded casual. Almost detached. But his eyes didn't leave her face.
Rhea smiled, soft and practiced. "If I'd written this, Detective, the ending would be cleaner."
He made a small note in his book, though she doubted he needed to. Mostly, she suspected, he was buying time. Watching how she spoke. How she didn't flinch.
"You found the body at ten fifteen."
"Yes."
"You were alone?"
"Yes."
"You didn't recognize him?"
Her head tilted slightly, almost amused. "Should I have?"
"That's what I'm asking."
She let the silence stretch between them, slow and deliberate. People often mistook quiet for compliance, for weakness. But quiet had teeth. Quiet waited for you to make the first mistake.
"No," she said at last, voice soft as honey. "I didn't recognize him."
"You don't seem shaken."
"I've been... preparing for grief for a long time." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Losing my sister wasn't... unexpected."
"But this-" He gestured loosely toward the floor, toward the history that would cling to this house long after he left. "This wasn't part of your preparation."
"No," she agreed. "But violence never is. That's why people fear it."
He leaned back, studying her now, not his notes. "And you? Do you fear it?"
Rhea's lips curved, slow, knowing. "Detective, I write about it. I understand it."
That answer seemed to satisfy him - or perhaps it only amused him. Either way, she knew she'd given him something to carry away with him. Something small and sharp enough to bother him later.
"You're not like the others I've interviewed," he said quietly.
"No," she said. "I wouldn't write thrillers if I were."