At 2:13 a.m., a rideshare driver received a message from an unknown number.
“Sir, please don’t report the woman who just got out of my car.”
The driver read the message three times.
He didn’t understand.
The woman had never gotten out of his car.
At least, that was what he believed.
Because according to the dashboard-camera recording, she was still sitting in the back seat when the car stopped in front of her house.
And stranger still—
the camera showed the back door opening by itself.
Three days after Arman Prakoso’s death, Raka still hadn’t managed to find out who was behind the murder.
The case was officially still open.
Bima had not been named a suspect.
But pressure from the victim’s family was mounting.
The media had begun reporting that the murder was tied to a corporate power struggle.
Bima’s name appeared almost every day.
Photos of his face circulated on social media.
People had already made up their minds before the police finished the investigation.
Raka didn’t like it.
Not because Bima was definitely innocent.
But because people always preferred a simple answer.
A wealthy father.
A son who had fought with him.
An inheritance.
A knife.
Fingerprints.
Case closed.
The problem was, crimes were rarely that simple.
At 7:42 a.m., Raka was at a coffee shop when Naya arrived carrying two cups of coffee.
“I found something.”
Raka didn’t look up from the case file.
“If it’s about Arman, I’ve already heard everything.”
“Not Arman.”
Raka finally looked at her.
“Another case?”
Naya set her phone on the table.
“A missing woman.”
“How long?”
“Two days.”
“The police?”
“They’re looking.”
“Why come to me?”
“Because the police have a problem.”
Raka closed the file.
“What problem?”
Naya played a video.
A dashboard-camera recording.
A car drove along an empty road.
The time in the corner of the screen read 11:48 p.m.
A woman could be seen in the back seat.
Long hair.
A black jacket.
Her face wasn’t clear.
Naya paused the video.
“Her name is Kirana.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Last seen?”
“Getting into a rideshare.”
“Driver?”
“His name is Hendra.”
“What did he say?”
Naya looked at Raka.
“He said the woman never got out.”
Raka frowned.
“Impossible.”
“That’s what I said.”
Naya played the video again.
The car stopped.
The brake lights came on.
The left rear door opened.
No one got out.
A few seconds later, the door closed.
The car started moving again.
Raka watched the screen.
“How long was the door open?”
“Six seconds.”
“And no one got out?”
“Watch.”
The video slowed down.
Raka watched the back seat.
Empty.
One second earlier, the woman was still sitting there.
The next second, the seat was empty.
The door opened.
There was no one there.
Raka looked at Naya.
“Is this video authentic?”
“It’s been examined.”
“Edited?”
“No signs of manipulation.”
Raka looked back at the screen.
“Where did the car stop?”
Naya gave him an address.
Raka fell silent.
The address was only about two kilometers from Arman Prakoso’s house.
9:16 a.m.
Raka met Hendra at a police station.
The thirty-six-year-old man looked sleep-deprived.
His hands kept moving.
Sometimes he clenched his pants.
Sometimes he rubbed his face.
Dimas stood beside him.
“This is Raka,” Dimas said.
Hendra looked at him.
“A former police investigator.”
Raka sat down.
“Start from the beginning.”
Hendra sighed.
“I accepted a request around eleven last night.”
“From where?”
“The station.”
“Destination?”
“Taman Aruna residential development.”
“Victim?”
“Kirana.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know her name?”
“She introduced herself.”
“What did she say?”
Hendra stared at the floor.
“She said she wanted to go home.”
“Address?”
“She gave it to me through the app.”
“Did she look afraid?”
Hendra thought about it.
“That’s what was strange.”
“What?”
“She was too calm.”
Raka said nothing.
Hendra continued.
“She sat in the back. She didn’t talk much.”
“Phone?”
“She kept holding it.”
“Messages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you notice anything?”
Hendra nodded.
“She looked in the rearview mirror several times.”
“At you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She was looking at something behind the car.”
Raka frowned.
“Behind the car?”
“Like there was a car following us.”
“What kind?”
“Black.”
“Plate?”
“Don’t know.”
“How long?”
“The entire trip.”
Raka took notes.
“Then?”
“I arrived at the location.”
“Did the woman get out?”
Hendra shook his head.
“Like in the video.”
“The door opened.”
“Yes.”
“Six seconds.”
“Yes.”
“And the seat was empty.”
“Yes.”
Raka stared at him for a long moment.
“After that?”
“I panicked.”
“Why?”
“I thought she’d run off.”
“Did you get out of the car?”
“Yes.”
“Check the area?”
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
Hendra swallowed.
“Her shoes.”
Raka stopped writing.
“Shoes?”
“A woman’s pair of shoes.”
“Where?”
“By the side of the road.”
“Were they still on her feet?”
Hendra shook his head.
“The shoes were near the drain.”
Raka and Dimas arrived at the location thirty minutes later.
The road was deserted.
A row of houses stood on the right.
On the left was an empty lot under construction.
The asphalt still showed traces of rain.
Raka stood where Hendra’s car had stopped.
He looked around.
“Here.”
Dimas pointed.
The woman’s shoes had been placed in an evidence bag.
“The victim’s shoes.”
Raka examined them.
No mud.
No blood.
No damage.
He crouched down.
“Why would someone take off their shoes?”
Dimas answered quickly.
“Maybe she was forced to.”
“If she was forced, why aren’t there signs of a struggle?”
“The perpetrator could have threatened her.”
“True.”
Raka stood.
“Or the victim took them off herself.”
Dimas looked at him.
“Why?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Raka walked toward the drain.
There were traces of standing water.
A small object was caught in the grass.
He picked it up with a gloved hand.
An access card.
The words on it read:
HOTEL ARUNA — ROOM 217.
Dimas looked at it.
“A hotel?”
Raka nodded.
“We’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
Raka glanced at his watch.
“If we go now, someone will know we found it.”
Dimas understood.
“So you want to keep watch?”
“I want to know who panics.”
Raka didn’t go home that night.
He sat in a car parked about two hundred meters from the location.
11:40 p.m.
Nothing.
11:55 p.m.
A black car drove past.
Raka immediately took notice.
The car didn’t stop.
It kept going.
Raka saw its license plate.
Then he wrote it down.
12:17 a.m.
The same car came back.
This time, it stopped.
A man got out.
He stood near the drain.
He did nothing.
Just stood there.
Then he lit a cigarette.
Raka reached for his phone.
He took a picture.
The man suddenly looked toward Raka’s car.
Raka lowered his head.
A few seconds later, he heard the car drive away.
Raka raised his head.
The black car was gone.
But something had been left where the man had stood.
A small object.
Raka got out.
He approached it.
A hotel-room key.
Number:
217.
8:05 a.m. the next morning.
Hotel Aruna stood in the city center.
A six-story building more than twenty years old.
Raka arrived with Naya.
Dimas did not come.
“Why not the police?” Naya asked.
“Because I want the hotel staff to talk without feeling like they’re being interrogated.”
“And if they lie?”
“The police get lied to all the time too.”
They went inside.
Raka showed Kirana’s photo to the receptionist.
“Do you know her?”
The woman behind the desk nodded.
“She stayed here.”
“Room 217?”
The receptionist checked the computer.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
Raka and Naya exchanged a look.
“Three days ago?”
“Yes.”
“Did she check out?”
The receptionist fell silent.
“One moment.”
Her fingers moved across the keyboard.
“The system says she hasn’t checked out.”
Raka frowned.
“Is the room still occupied?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the last person to enter?”
The receptionist looked at the screen.
Then her expression changed.
“Is there a problem?”
“The access data shows the room card was used last night.”
Naya looked at Raka.
“What time?”
The receptionist answered softly.
“11:41 p.m.”
Raka looked at his watch.
That was only twenty minutes before Hendra found Kirana’s shoes.
“Who went in?”
“The card number doesn’t show a name.”
“Security-camera footage?”
“We have it.”
They went to the security room.
The corridor recording played.
11:41 p.m.
A man walked toward Room 217.
A hat.
A mask.
A black jacket.
He stopped in front of the door.
Inserted the card.
Went inside.
Raka asked them to slow the recording down.
The man entered.
The door closed.
No one came out for twelve minutes.
Then, at 11:53 p.m., the door opened.
The man stepped out.
He looked right.
Then left.
And walked toward the emergency stairs.
Raka asked them to zoom in.
The face was still impossible to see.
But there was something on the man’s hand.
A ring.
Raka moved closer to the screen.
“Stop.”
The video froze.
The ring was clearly visible.
Its design was simple.
A silver band with a black line through the center.
Raka fell silent.
Naya watched him.
“You recognize it?”
Raka didn’t answer immediately.
“Not yet.”
“That answer sounds like you do.”
Raka stood.
“Let’s go to Room 217.”
A hotel officer opened the room door.
The room was empty.
The bed was neatly made.
No suitcase.
No clothes.
No personal belongings.
As if the room had never been used.
Naya looked around.
“This is strange.”
Raka approached the table.
There was a glass.
Water stains still marked it.
He checked the bathroom.
Empty.
The closet.
Empty.
The bed.
Empty.
Then he saw something beneath the mattress.
An envelope.
No name.
No address.
Raka opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A photo of Arman Prakoso.
Raka turned it over.
There was a handwritten note:
“The first case wasn’t about Arman.”
Raka froze.
Naya read over his shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
Raka turned the photo over again.
There was a date at the bottom.
It was three months before Arman’s death.
Naya stared at him.
“So they knew each other?”
Raka shook his head.
“Not necessarily.”
“Then why is Arman’s photo here?”
Raka looked around.
Because for the first time, he realized something.
Kirana’s case wasn’t new.
It might have begun long before Kirana disappeared.
Maybe even before Arman was murdered.
2:20 p.m.
Dimas called.
“Raka.”
“What?”
“We found Kirana.”
Raka stood.
“Where?”
“At a hospital.”
“Is she hurt?”
“She’s conscious.”
Raka let out a breath.
“What’s her condition?”
“Fine.”
“Then where was she found?”
Dimas fell silent.
“At her house.”
Raka didn’t understand.
“You said her house?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Two days ago.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
Raka looked at the photo of Arman in his hand.
“Because we’ve been looking for her in the wrong place for two days.”
Dimas replied:
“That’s what we thought too.”
“What do you mean?”
Dimas’s voice changed.
“Because Kirana said something.”
“What?”
“She said…”
Dimas stopped.
“…she never took a rideshare that night.”
Raka fell silent.
“But the recording?”
“She said it wasn’t her.”
“The shoes?”
“Not hers.”
“The hotel card?”
“Not hers.”
Raka frowned.
“Then who was the woman in Hendra’s car?”
Dimas answered softly.
“That’s the problem.”
“We don’t know.”
The phone connection cut out.
Raka was still holding his phone.
Naya looked at him.
“Who was it?”
Raka raised Arman’s photo.
“The woman we were looking for wasn’t missing after all.”
“Then who was sitting in the back seat?”
Raka stared at the photo.
“I don’t know.”
He paused.
“But now I’m sure of one thing.”
“What?”
“The person who made that woman look like Kirana…”
Raka looked at the hotel-room door.
“…is trying to make us believe Kirana is connected to Arman’s death.”
Naya fell silent.
Then Raka’s phone rang.
A message came in from an unknown number.
Only one sentence.
“Do you still think all of this is a coincidence?”
Raka read the message.
Then a second message arrived.
“If you want to know who the woman in the back seat was, find the person wearing the black ring.”
Raka looked back at the security-camera footage.
The silver ring with the black line.
He zoomed in on the image.
For the first time, he saw something he hadn’t noticed before.
Beneath the ring was a small, semicircular scar.
Raka recognized it.
He had seen it before.
Not on the perpetrator.
Not on Kirana.
Not on Arman.
But on someone who had been very close to the investigation all along.
Raka slowly lowered his phone.
His expression changed.
Naya asked:
“Who?”
Raka didn’t answer.
Because the name that had surfaced in his mind belonged to the person he least wanted to suspect.
Inspector Dimas Wicaksana.
END OF CHAPTER 2
Coming up in Chapter 3:
Raka begins to suspect Dimas.
But there’s one major problem.
When the mysterious woman was seen getting into Hendra’s car, Dimas was at the police station—and the station’s security cameras recorded him there for almost the entire night.
If Dimas wasn’t the perpetrator…
who was wearing his ring?