Sunday Suspense Apr 2026

Rohan’s eyes widened. “Then whose blood was it?”

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.”

“Then how did the blood get on the wall?” Arjun asked, not looking up. Sunday Suspense

Outside, the fog was rolling in thick over Kolkata. Somewhere, a door was about to open. And for Superintendent Arjun Sen, the real story had only just begun.

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.” Rohan’s eyes widened

“She,” Arjun murmured.

The amber glow of the study lamp did little to chase away the Sunday chill. For Superintendent Arjun Sen, the third Sunday of every month was a ritual. The leather armchair, a half-empty glass of single malt, and the case file no one else could solve. “So, it’s a locked-room mystery, Baba

He paused at the door. “Come, Rohan. Let’s go meet a ghost.”

“Too theatrical. This killer is precise, not dramatic. The message isn’t for us. It’s a signature. A promise.”

“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.”

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.