Arjun stood, pulling on his coat. “That’s the question. And tonight is the third Sunday of the month. If the pattern holds, someone, somewhere, is already waiting for their visitor.”
Rohan’s eyes widened. “Then whose blood was it?”
“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.”
