VERSTIMONY

Breach Candy Safehouse — 6:12 a.m.

The dawn light filtered in like a whisper through gauzy curtains, casting long shadows across the modest safehouse bedroom. Arjun Roy sat at the edge of the bed, one boot on, holster already secured, the cold steel of his badge brushing against his ribs. On the nightstand, the arrest warrant for Christopher Lobo lay like an unspoken sentence — signed, stamped, judicial ink already drying into justice.

Natasha D’Mello moved wordlessly across the room, sealing a leather file pouch shut. Inside it, Anna Sebastian’s original manuscript and voice recordings sat like loaded pistols. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, but her voice carried steel.

“No more delays,” she said.

Arjun stood. “Today, he speaks,” he replied. “Whether he wants to or not.”

Malabar Hill — 7:21 a.m.

Rain whispered across the windshield as the police convoy climbed the serpentine road toward Lobo’s colonial bungalow. Behind gilded gates, Christopher Lobo stood on his portico, teacup in hand, calm as scripture. He didn’t flinch when Arjun stepped out of the lead vehicle, flanked by six armed officers.

“Christopher Lobo,” Arjun announced, “you are under arrest for the murder of Anna Sebastian, conspiracy to silence journalists, and obstruction of justice in relation to multiple homicides.”

Lobo’s butler gasped. Lobo raised a single eyebrow.

“I hope you’ve prepared a strong opening line,” he said. “Because I intend to narrate every lie you bring into my house.”

Arjun’s tone was cold. “No need. Anna already wrote your story. All we did was follow the footnotes.”

Crime Branch HQ — 9:05 a.m.

Inside Interrogation Room A, the air buzzed with electric silence. Lobo sat alone, no restraints, hands clasped like a professor awaiting a seminar. His face was expressionless, but the muscles at his jaw twitched every few seconds.

Mukesh Kulkarni dropped a thick folder on the table. “You knew Anna Sebastian. You knew her work. You called her your ‘literary rival.’ Want to talk about what else you knew?”

Lobo smirked. “Poets exaggerate. I admired her. Resented her brilliance. But I never silenced her.”

Arjun slid the pen across the table — Anna’s Mont Blanc, now emptied and forensically catalogued. Next came Daniel D’Souza’s signed statement, the lab’s toxin analysis, and a digital player loaded with voice recordings.

Arjun pressed play.

Anna’s voice rang out, brittle but defiant: “He said my death would be a comma. But I wrote a full stop.”

Lobo remained silent, but the smile faded. Mukesh leaned in. “You left fingerprints in style. The em dashes. The ellipses. The double colon stanzas. You wanted to be noticed. And now you are.”

Finally, Lobo spoke.

“She wasn’t supposed to finish it.”

Magistrate Court, Mumbai — 11:40 a.m.

The courtroom was packed wall-to-wall. Civil rights lawyers, literary icons, and social media influencers filled every seat. News cameras rolled, lenses twitching. The judge leafed through the dossier slowly.

“This manuscript is not merely evidence,” he said, voice grave. “It is a wound documented in ink. What we begin here is not just a legal process, but a moral reckoning.”

Lobo’s attorney objected. The judge overruled. The case was accepted. Charges included murder, conspiracy, psychological coercion, intellectual theft, and tampering with evidence. Bail was denied.

Outside, Arjun addressed the media.

“This is about more than Anna Sebastian. It’s about every silenced voice. Every erased line. Every truth edited out by power.”

Then Natasha stepped forward.

“We do not fight injustice with slogans,” she said. “We fight it with story, and Anna gave us one. She wrote, and we listened.”

St. Xavier’s Literary Memorial — 6:00 p.m.

Hundreds gathered beneath strings of yellow lights at the amphitheatre. The air smelled of wax and old rain. A single chair onstage sat draped in white — Anna’s chair, they said. Her typewriter rested on a wooden table, its keys dusted but preserved.

Poets read from her work. One child recited a verse she wrote in school, inspired by Anna’s anthology. Screens flashed her manuscripts. The audience wept.

Natasha walked up the stage steps, heart pounding. She carried Anna’s final, handwritten poem. The original ink, still dark.

She cleared her throat and began:

“Truth can be outlawed, but not undone. If I cannot live to write, then let my writing live on.“

She paused. The silence that followed was deeper than grief. It was reverence.

Applause erupted — raw, unfiltered, relentless.

Anna Sebastian Museum — 9:12 p.m.

Inside a former reading room repurposed into a small memorial, Arjun walked alone. Soft jazz played faintly from hidden speakers. On the wall: a framed copy of “The Man Without a Face,” first edition.

Under glass lay Anna’s belongings — the infamous Mont Blanc (sealed in acrylic), a stack of annotated manuscripts, and an aged envelope addressed: To the next reader.

Arjun placed a simple pen beside the display.

“She gave us the words,” he murmured. “We just had to read them out loud.”

As he turned to leave, he caught his reflection in the glass — not as a detective, but as a character in someone else’s unfinished poem.

Later That Night — Bandra Promenade

Natasha sat on a bench overlooking the sea. The city shimmered behind her — indifferent, unaware. She pulled out a recording device and pressed play.

Anna’s voice returned: “If they bury my words, dig. If they burn them, rewrite. If they silence them… scream.”

Natasha pressed stop. For the first time in weeks, her hands stopped shaking.

Meanwhile — Nariman Point, Lobo’s Office (Sealed)

The shutters were down. The foundation website had been taken offline. His publisher had severed ties. Sponsors backed out. In the darkened office, the portraits of former literary legends stared down as if in judgment.

Lobo’s shadow lingered on the carpet where he once stood, reciting verses. Now, it was nothing but a ghost.

Midnight — Arjun’s Apartment

Rain tapped gently against the windowpane. Arjun sat at his desk, not with case files, but with a blank sheet of paper.

He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a letter — Anna’s old poem, folded into thirds:

“You read me like a case file, Your hands too steady for poems. But I see the verse behind your eyes. One day, detective, you’ll write.“

He smiled faintly.

“Not today,” he whispered, and slid the poem back in.

“First, I finish yours.”

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