Now I Can Sleep

The murder was brutal, cold, and clean—too clean. No blood trail, no fingerprints, no surveillance footage. Just a lifeless body, slumped in his study chair, a knife embedded in his chest. No signs of a break-in, no struggle. It happened on the night of his birthday, with laughter echoing through the hallways and wine spilling over polished wooden tables.

He was surrounded by people who knew him, loved him—or claimed to. Friends, family, a loyal servant. They all toasted to his health. Hours later, they stood stunned as the celebration turned into a crime scene.

The victim, Mick Landon, was a wealthy and well-known businessman. Sharp in deals, respected in society, but with a personal life far messier than it seemed. The police had four suspects, all family members, and each had a motive. Yet not a single thread of solid evidence pointed anywhere. The investigation dragged on for weeks. Every time they thought they had cracked the case, a new clue unravelled everything.

By the second week, the local department gave up their pride and called in the only man who thrived in fog: Detective Johas Marci.

Johas was known across the region for his unorthodox methods—no loud interrogations, no obsession with fingerprints or lab reports. He worked with body language, timelines, silence. He could read guilt in a glance. His name had become a whisper in the halls of the unsolved.

He arrived at the estate quietly, dressed in a long coat and a hat with a glass lens in his hand. The house was still soaked in tension. The family was split—some mourning, others distracted by inheritance and legalities. And above the fireplace, Mick’s portrait smiled like a man who believed he’d get away with everything.

Johas walked the halls, replayed the timelines, reviewed the autopsy, studied their routines. He noticed how stiff the family was when speaking of the victim—not with grief, but formality. They cried, but only when being watched.

Each night, Johas lay in his room, wide-eyed, listening to the silence. Thoughts spun like a carousel. The faces, the lies, the half-truths.

"I can't sleep," he whispered into the dark. "Not until I find the truth."

The breakthrough didn’t come in the form of DNA or a clue hidden in a drawer. It came in the form of a deleted phone call.

Mick’s phone logs revealed a single call made a few days back before his death—to a young woman named Mira Sloan. She wasn’t family, nor a business partner. She wasn’t mentioned in any statements.

But she was something. She was the fiancée of James, the estate's quiet, long-serving housekeeper.

Johas’s instincts flared. Mira had died three weeks before the murder. According to hospital records, James had rushed her there after finding her unconscious in the mansion’s drawing room. The cause of death was “trauma-related internal bleeding.” She had been assaulted—violently.

The timeline aligned.

She had gone to visit James during his shift. He was out running errands. She entered the house, not suspecting a thing.

Once the victim, Mick, saw her with James, he developed twisted intentions. From that day on, he had been watching her closely. One afternoon, knowing James wouldn’t be home, Mick invited her over under the pretence of needing help with a household matter—and when she arrived, he attacked her.

She was an innocent girl, naive to the ways of men like him. She thought Mick was a good man—her fiancé had always spoken highly of his employer, calling him fair and respectable. She never saw it coming.

James returned home early and found her barely conscious, her clothes torn, her lips trembling. He carried her to the hospital, where she whispered what had happened.

“He did this,” she said through broken breath. “Don’t let him… get away with it…”

And then she died.

James never went to the police. Mick was powerful, connected, and respected. James had no evidence—no recordings, no witnesses. Just a dying woman’s final words. He knew no one would believe a servant accusing a man like Mick.

So he kept it inside. He said nothing.

But silence, like grief, eventually finds its voice.

Johas visited the servant's quarters. James greeted him calmly, politely, offering tea he never touched himself. His eyes were glassy, detached. Too careful.

The neighbours behind the estate spoke of James’s transformation.

“After she died, he wasn’t the same,” said an older woman across the wall. “Used to wave every morning. Then… nothing. Just stood at the window for hours, staring at the garden.”

The garden was where Mira liked to read. Her favourite spot. Johas found a small bench there. Still clean. As if someone still sat there often.

Flashback: James – One Week Before the Murder

James sat alone at that bench, holding a silver locket Mira once wore. Inside it, a picture of them both, laughing beneath a tree.

He remembered her eyes as she lay dying. He remembered how light used to dance in them.

He had cleaned Mick’s suits. Polished his trophies. Served him coffee.

He had done everything right.

But there had to be justice.

“She asked me to protect her,” he whispered into the wind. “I couldn’t. So I will.”

And he waited.

The birthday party was perfect. Loud, messy, drunken. The family was buzzing with fake laughter and champagne flutes. By 1:00 a.m., the house was dim. People lay passed out in guest rooms. The study door was closed.

James moved like a ghost. He knew every camera blind spot, every creaky step, every shortcut.

One quiet step.

One clean strike.

No rage. No chaos.

Just justice.

Detective Marci didn’t accuse him in front of the others. He waited until the next morning, in the garden.

James was already sitting there, hands clasped, eyes staring out toward the fog.

Johas approached slowly.

“How did you know?” James asked, without turning.

“Because you’re the only one who didn’t pretend to mourn him.”

James’s hands trembled. “I thought I could forget. But every night, I heard her voice again. I saw her face. I heard her last breath.”

There was no denial. No fear. Just quiet, resolved grief.

“He was supposed to protect her. I trusted him,” James added, eyes glossy. “She thought he was a good man… because I did.”

Johas nodded, his coat flapping in the breeze. The case was closed.

But there was no celebration.

Only silence.

That evening, Johas returned to his temporary apartment. The weight of the case sat heavy on his shoulders, but something in him had shifted. The loose ends had been tied. The truth had finally taken shape.

He poured a glass of scotch, turned off the lamp, and stared out into the city lights.

The ceiling no longer spun. The whispers no longer screamed.

“Now I can sleep,” he said softly.

And this time, he did.