The Bridge
The door slammed shut, echoing through the house like a gunshot. My chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths. I clutched the photo in my hand, my fingertips damp with rainwater—or perhaps sweat—as I stared at the image of the bridge: Third Mainland. It felt like it was three years ago.
It all came rushing back.
The night was foggy as I drove home from a friend's birthday party. The road was almost deserted. Halfway across the bridge, I spotted a man standing by the railing, leaning forward as if he were about to jump.
I slowed down and rolled down my window.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
He turned his head, but I couldn't see his face clearly; the streetlights were dim.
And then a car appeared in my rearview mirror, speeding toward us. I panicked, swerved, and then I heard the sound of tires screeching. The man stumbled, and I saw a splash.
I never told anyone. I convinced myself he was fine, that maybe he swam to safety. I drove away. Now, staring at this photo, I wasn’t so sure. My phone buzzed again. Another message:
“I didn’t drown, Aisha. But someone else did. And you’re going to help me find the killer.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but froze.
From the kitchen came the sound of water dripping.
And then, slowly, a wet footprint appeared on the floor… followed by another.
