Page 42 of Shattered

Unknown:Fifteen days is a good amount of time, but not a day more. And I presume you’re as intelligent as your sister—after all, she was the top performer of her college.

I tighten my grip on my mobile. He knows every damn thing.Frustration bubbles up inside me, and I clench my phone, ready to hurl it across the room, when suddenly something strikes me.‘College? Nisha?’I mutter to myself, the wheels turning in my mind.‘Yes, I need to search her room; I may find something there.’

Throwing my mobile onto the bed, I step out of my room and head down to Nisha’s room.As I push open the door, I see Sunita Aunty wrapping up Nisha’s sponge bath.

“Morning, baby,” she smiles, carrying the small tub of water in her hand. Her eyes flicker over my attire, and she frowns. “You’re still not dressed for office? Are you feeling okay?” she asks, taking in my track pants and t-shirt.

I offer her a faint smile as I walk further into the room,settling beside her. “I am fine, Aunty. I thought I’d go to the office a bit later. I wanted to go through Nisha’s stuff and see if I could find something to donate to the orphanage.Maybe we’ll receive some blessings, and Nisha will wake up soon.You’ve been telling me for so long, and I’ve always been putting it off, so I thought of doing it today.”

Aunty’s expression softens. “Do you want me to help you?” she asks, concern evident in her voice. She knows how difficult it is for me to go through Nisha’s things,especially since I haven’t touched her things since the accident. In fact, Aunty was the one who gave away my parents’ belongings to the orphanage,but I’ve been adamant about holding on to Nisha’s things so that when she wakes up, she’ll find everything just as she left it. Nor I have ever felt the need to pry into her stuff, as I never suspected it to be a planned murder. I always thought my parents and sister were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“No, I’ve got this. I want to do it alone, Aunty. I hope you understand.”

“I understand. You go ahead. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of breakfast,” she smiles, giving me a kiss on my forehead before stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind her.

I let out a shaky breath and gaze down at my sister, bending to kiss her forehead. I place my hand on her cheek and whisper, “Please help me, Nisha. Please help me find some clue, something—anything.”

Straightening up, I look around her room, my heart pounding in my chest as I am not exactly sure where to start. My gaze falls on her desk, and I walk up to it, starting to rifle through notebooks and papers. Nothing out of the ordinary—just the usual jumble of her college work and random notes.Damn! Frustrated, I turn around and move to her dresser, opening each drawer. My hands shake slightly as I sift through her belongings. Nothing here either. Feeling defeated, I huff,‘How foolish of me to believe I’d stumble upon a stroke of luck.’

Disappointed, I am about to give upwhen my eyes land on her laptop sitting on the nightstand. It was her prized possession, a gift from our parents, which she always kept close to her.

Crossing my fingers, I pick up the laptop and carefully sit next to Nisha on the bed. When I open the screen, I find it dead. I quickly pull the charger from the nightstand drawer, plug it in,and wait with bated breath. The screen lights up, and to my relief, it’s not password protected. Looking up from the laptop screen, I give my sister a smile, reminiscing that Nisha was never the one for high-tech security. I recall how I always teased herabout how I was better with gadgets. Pushing the memory aside, I drop my gaze back to the laptop.

Biting my lip, I go through her files, searching for anything that might give me a clue. Then I open her browser and see theshortcut for her email. I click on it, desperately hoping she’s still logged in.To my relief, her email opens right up.

I browse through her inbox when my eyes fall on a string of messages from someone called ‘Your Admirer.’ I pause to take a closer look, feeling a creepy vibe that makes my skin crawl as I open each email and read through it carefully.

Nisha, we need to talk. Meet me at the usual spot in college.

I’ve seen you staring at me in class.

Stop ignoring me. You can’t hide forever.

Don’t think you’re safe at the campus. You can’t escape me.

My breath catches in my throat. ‘What the hell? There was someone tormenting her,’I whisper to myself before I read the last message, sent on the day of her accident.

This ends today.

A chill runs down my spine as I shut the laptop and look again at Nisha. “Why? Why Nisha?Why didn’t you ever tell me someone was after you? Why did you keep it a secret?” I ask her with tears in my eyes, even though I know she can’t reply back.

As I wipe my tears away, I find myself pondering—something doesn’t quite add up. Nisha was never one to keep things to herself. We were close, and she would share everything with me. So why did she hide this? I always thought I was someone she would always confide in, besides her stupid diary.Diary...

I quickly rise from the bed and kneel beside the nightstand. Opening the bottom drawer, I find her small leather-bound journal hidden beneath a pile of novels. Flipping through the pages, I see it’s filled with Nisha’s neat handwriting. Most of it is mundane, daily entries, but my eyes pause at a page that reads:

He’s making my life hell. I saw him in the college locker room today. He was... he was... I am scared. I need to tell someone, but who?

I turn the page.

He’s becoming more aggressive. I don’t know what to do. He’s even following me.

The last entryis dated the day before the accident.

I am meeting him after I get back from my family trip. I need to put an end to this.

Tears blur my vision again. She had been so scared, so alone, and I had no idea. My anger boils over, not just at the person torturing her, but at myself for not being there for her—forbeing oblivious to her hidden struggle. I am a horrible sister.

But no, this is not the time to blame myself. I have a mission. I have to find out who this person is.

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