The road bent toward silence as they approached the residence of the second victim.
Rain had left its fingerprints on the cobblestones, and the sky above Dhaka sulked behind thin clouds. The alleys behind them grew quiet—not because the city had stilled, but because it was listening.
This part of town was different.
Where the first death clung to shadow and poverty, this place breathed prestige. Well-trimmed hedges guarded whitewashed walls. A small fountain murmured near the gate. Even the jasmine that curled around the iron bars smelled like it didn't know tragedy.
But Isarish did.
His eyes flicked to the brass nameplate beside the entrance. A polished surname. A polished life.
"So, this," he muttered under his breath, "is the man who bought me a ticket here."
The inspector Rayhan nodded cautiously. "A respected businessman. Clean record. Old friend of Mr. Carlson's."
Isarish didn't move. His gaze lingered on the house, but not in admiration. It was the kind of look one gives a well-wrapped gift that stinks faintly of rot.
"A man this admired," he whispered, "is either loved widely… or feared quietly."
They stepped through the gate.
---
The house greeted them with silence—not the comfortable kind, but the kind that follows after something important has been taken away.
Paintings lined the hall—smiles frozen in time, perfect and curated. A woman. Two children. A husband in the centre. They looked like they belonged to a story that had already ended.
And then…
She appeared.
From the top of the stairs, a woman descended—slow, fragile, like she'd forgotten how her legs worked. She was young, not yet past thirty, but her eyes carried decades of ruin.
Her skin was fair, but pale. Her hair—dark, unkempt, barely pinned—fell like curtain threads down her shoulders. Her dress, once elegant, now hung limp with wrinkles and stains.
But it was her eyes that told the truth.
Dead. Not lifeless—but dead.
Eyes that had seen something they couldn't explain and now refused to blink in case it returned.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice soft, hoarse.
Rayhan stepped forward. "Police. We're here regarding your husband."
The words landed like stones in a lake.
She didn't scream.
She didn't collapse.
She just stood there, swaying slightly, like her grief had put her in a dream that wouldn't end.
"No," she whispered. "You must be wrong. He… he went out. Last Week. To see the doctor…"
Her hand moved to her belly. A small swell beneath her dress. Pregnant.
"He said it was for me. For the baby. Said he'd be back."
Isarish watched without interrupting. His eyes didn't soften, but they stilled—like he was watching something sacred begin to fracture.
"Do you remember his exact words?" he asked gently.
She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "He said… 'Don't worry. Everything will be fine.'"
"And the doctor?"
"Dr. Rafiq," she replied. "That's who he went to see."
There was a pause—short, but weighty.
"Was he acting strange?" Isarish asked. "Fearful? Distant?"
She shook her head. "No… he was kind. Calm. But… I don't know. Maybe he was hiding it."
Her voice cracked. "But he kissed me before he left. That's what I remember."
She tried to stand straighter but gripped the wall to steady herself.
"Did he have enemies?"
"None. Everyone loved him. He was… good. Honest."
The word hung in the air like something naive.
Isarish turned away. Not dismissing her—but allowing her grief to breathe.
"Thank you," he said softly. "We won't keep you."
As they stepped outside, the air felt colder—though the sky hadn't changed.
Isarish whispered under his breath:
"Dr. Rafiq…"
Rayhan glanced sideways. "What are you thinking?"
But Isarish didn't answer.
He was already walking, eyes distant, lips silently repeating the name like a poem carved in bone.