2 - The Detective

Manolya’s POV

The room was dim, lit only by a low ceiling lamp and the soft green glow of a heart monitor. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, masking the faint earthy smell clinging to my clothes from the caves.

Machines hummed softly at the edge of my hearing, their steady rhythm both comforting and threatening.

Two uniformed officers stood on either side of the door, unmoving, their eyes fixed on me as if I might vanish.

Their stillness made my skin prickle. I was alone, pinned under their watch with no escape.

I stared at the ceiling, feeling the cold bite of the handcuffs against my wrists.

They’d rubbed the skin raw. My pulse thudded at my temples.

I tried to swallow but my throat was dry, thick with the taste of iron.

The door opened. The officers straightened. A tall man stepped inside, his broad shoulders framed by the door. He paused, drew in a breath, exhaled, and only then moved forward. His leather shoes whispered against the sterile floor.

His name was Detective Kenan Karga.

I knew him already.

He worked under Police Chief Serdar Kılıç, and I had met him during İpek’s disappearance, when he came to our house to speak with my father, Emre.

İpek. Her name sent my thoughts spiraling.

Had she died too?

I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the storm rising inside me.

He was man who had seen everything—thieves, murderers, disappearances. His presence filled the room like a storm rolling in from the Akyaka Azmak river.

Kenan Karga’s jaw was strong, his cheekbones sharp.

He was in his early forties, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes hinted at the toll of his work, his calm composure never faltered.

His black hair was tousled. His gaze never missed a detail.

The officers stepped aside.

Kenan walked toward my bed, his eyes scanning the monitors, the IV line, the bruises on my arms, before settling on me.

He dragged a wooden chair over with a slow scrape and sat.

“Good afternoon, Manolya,” he said, his voice low and even. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

I didn’t answer. The lump in my throat wouldn’t budge.

He clasped his hands loosely, leaning forward. “My name is Detective Kenan Karga. Before we talk, I need to make sure you understand your rights.”

I blinked at him. The words reached me through a fog.

“What… happened?” My voice came out weak, trembling. “I don’t remember everything. It’s all—” I broke off, my eyes burning.

Kenan’s tone softened. “It’s okay, Manolya. The doctor says you’re in shock. Memory gaps are common. We’ll explain everything.” He hesitated. “But I do need to ask a few questions, and you need to know your rights first. Can you do that?”

I stared at his eyes that were dark brown, rimmed with tired lines and I found no malice there. Only duty. I nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Detective. Please… go ahead.”

He spoke clearly, each word precise. “You are under arrest and suspected of first-degree murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Do you understand?”

The word murder landed like a blow. My lips parted but no sound came out. Murder. Suspected of murder.

I forced out a whisper. “Yes. I understand.”

Kenan studied me for a long moment. His eyes flicked briefly to the heart monitor before returning to mine.

His next words were heavier.

“Based on the evidence we have so far, you’re a suspect in the death of another woman. I’m here to understand exactly what happened. But the law limits what I can ask you here. We’ll talk more at the station once you’re stable.”

I felt myself shrink under the weight of it. Murder. Death. My mind tried to conjure an image but only fragments came: blood on my hands, Pelin screaming, a woman’s eyes wide and glassy.

“How long until you can question me?” I asked with my voice thin.

Kenan’s gaze held steady. “We’ll move you once the doctor says you’re fit. Then we’ll hear your side of the story.”

His voice was steady but there was a flicker of something—pity? behind his eyes.

Inside me, panic rose like water in a sinking ship.

Why would I kill anyone? I wouldn’t even harm a hare.

My thoughts were tangled, frantic.

Was this a mistake? A setup?

But no one was laughing.

Kenan’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Your cooperation matters, Manolya. It helps justice. Right now we’re still gathering evidence and witness statements.”

His words dissolved into the beeping of the machines. Through the thin hospital walls I heard the echo of distant voices, the squeak of rubber soles, the muted wail of another patient.

The world outside this room felt far away, like a dream I couldn’t reenter.

Suddenly a single thought cut through the noise. My family.

I pushed myself up on the bed, chains rattling. “Where is my family? Why am I alone?”

Kenan’s expression softened. He reached out, covering my hand with his. His palm was warm, calloused.

“They’re alive,” he said quietly. “Your uncle Eren, and cousins Adem and Adlee are in the trauma and orthopedic ward. Pelin is in emergency, receiving treatment for her wounds. Your father Emre is waiting outside—he’s eager to see you, if you’ll allow him. İpek is in the maternity ward under observation. She is no longer pregnant, but she’s being cared for. Her baby survived as well. The doctors will brief your father soon. He can tell you more.”

My chest tightened.

“Pelin…” I whispered. Tears slipped down my temples. Relief and guilt collided inside me.

Kenan squeezed my hand once, then stood. “Rest now. We’ll speak again at the station.”

He walked to the door. The officers nodded as he passed, then resumed their statuesque watch.

The room fell silent except for the machines. I sank back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

So they were alive.

Why do I feel relieved? Why do I want to cry from both joy and pain? Who hurt them?

My father. Even hearing his name churned something inside me. Confusion, resentment, a flicker of warmth. Why did it all feel so complicated?

My head throbbed. Every question I tried to answer split into more questions. Why had my uncle and the twins hit a wall? Was that my fault too?

I clutched the sheets. I’m not a killer. I know myself. Don’t I?

The more I searched my memory, the more it scattered.

Kenan Karga’s calm voice echoed: “You are under arrest…” but I couldn’t picture what came before. Only blankness.

Outside the window the late afternoon sun bled orange against the horizon. Shadows stretched long across the floor.

I pictured my father pacing outside, waiting, helpless. The thought cracked something inside me.

Had I defended myself? From what? From whom?

I had no enemies. I kept to myself. Focused on school, on my family, on life. So why was I here, shackled to a hospital bed with blood under my fingernails?

The questions gnawed at me, each one sharper than the last. My hands shook as I gripped the sheets tighter.

If I did something, even by accident—I had to remember right?

But my mind was a fogged mirror. Every time I reached for a memory it slipped away.

Somewhere beyond these walls, the town of Akyaka churned with rumor. I could almost hear them: whispers about the Günahgözcü, the Sinwatcher, the creature that appears when grave sins are committed. My name tangled with that legend now. The thought made bile rise in my throat.

Had I called it down on myself? Or was someone else’s sin staining me?

The monitor beeped steadily, indifferent. The fluorescent light hummed. A moth circled the lamp above, beating its wings against the glass.

I was trapped. In this room. In my mind. In the story everyone else was telling about me.