Ray of hope
Julia was found brutally stabbed in her own backyard, leaving Ray, her husband, shattered and desperate for answers. His grief turns to obsession as he hunts down her suspected killer — Anderson, her abusive ex-boyfriend. But doubts gnaw at him: was it really Anderson? Or was Julia’s death a tragic suicide? Millie, Julia’s closest friend, has never even heard of Anderson, raising unsettling questions about how well we truly know the ones we love. Despite relentless investigation, Officer Robert is nowhere closer to the truth. Was Julia hiding a dark secret? And where is Anderson now?
The gray of the walls was suffocating, oppressive, more alive than the man who sat beneath them. Ray had always thought of gray as emotionless, a blank canvas for a painter like himself. But now, it gnawed at him, hollowed him out, until there was nothing left but a void. His mind spiraled, slipping between reality and something darker.
“I don’t know,” Ray muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
The lie detector hummed softly, confirming the truth in his words. Officer Robert leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying Ray like a puzzle missing too many pieces.
“Go home, Ray,” Robert said quietly. “You need rest.”
But Ray didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the wall, unblinking. Three days had passed since they found Julia, his wife, dead in the backyard. Three days since Ray’s world crumbled into something incomprehensible. Each night, he still heard her screams. Each night, her voice clawed at the edges of his sanity, tearing it apart piece by piece.
He remembered their dinner date a week before, Julia’s radiant smile as she accepted his compliment on her beauty. Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, eyes sparkling with happiness. He had meant every word, but as he looked at her, he couldn’t shake the brief, unsettling sensation that her smile belonged solely to him, a subtle reminder of how deeply he wanted to keep her close, to guard her from the world.
He had to go back to the house today. The silence of it had called to him, almost a whisper in the back of his mind. He told himself it was because her things were there, that being near them would make the grief more bearable. But there was something else. Something pulling him back.
The evening air was thick as Ray unlocked the door and stepped inside. This house used to hum with life. Julia’s laughter, their soft conversations, the sound of records spinning on their old phonograph. But now it was dead. Cold. A tomb.
He walked to the phonograph on autopilot, hands trembling as he placed the needle on their favorite record. “Magic” by Coldplay filled the room, the sound so familiar it almost hurt.
“Call it magic, call it true, call it magic, when I’m with you…”
Ray closed his eyes, swaying to the music like he used to with her. But tonight, her absence was a weight he couldn’t bear. His arms felt empty, his soul heavier than the air around him. Crawling up on his toes, she would ask him if she’s heavy to affirm her little insecurities, and he would say “not at all”, but she never felt as heavy to him as today. Tears burned his eyes, and for the first time in days, he let them fall. He let them flood him, drowning in the pain he couldn’t control.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. A flicker of movement outside. The backyard.
Ray’s heart skipped a beat, then pounded violently in his chest. His breath quickened, and his vision tunnelled as he focused on the glass wall. Someone was there, climbing over the fence.
Him.
Anderson. The man who had haunted Ray’s every waking moment. The man who had taken everything from him. The rage hit Ray like a lightning strike, sharp and blinding. He screamed, his voice ragged, raw, but Anderson was already running. Ray’s hands shook as he grabbed his phone, but when he tried to speak, the words came out garbled, incomprehensible. He was drowning in his own fury, and before he knew it, his agony threw the phone, shattering the glass wall.
He stumbled toward the door, toward the backyard, but his body betrayed him. His legs gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. His chest heaved, muscles burning as he lay there, broken, staring at the ceiling while “Magic” continued to play in the background. Tears streamed down his face as the familiar melody twisted the knife deeper into his soul.
The next morning, Officer Robert met Millie at the station. She was pale, her hands trembling as she recounted Julia’s last weeks. Julia had been stressed — Ray’s decision to leave his full-time job to focus on painting, their financial troubles. Their marriage was young, just two months old, but it was already fraying — like a season old, Summer turns to Autumn the same year.
“Julia was worried about him,” Millie said, her voice thin. “He was… different, especially after they got married.”
Robert leaned forward. “What do you mean…different?”
Millie nodded her head and gave a clueless sigh.
“Did you know Julia’s ex, Anderson?”, asked Robert, pushing another question onto her.
Millie frowned, confusion crossing her face. “Anderson? No. I’ve never heard of him.”
Robert’s gaze didn’t leave hers. “Ray says he saw Anderson. That he was coming around the house. Do you think Julia was seeing him behind Ray’s back?”
Millie blinked, stunned by the question. “What? No. Absolutely not. Julia would never do that. Ray must have made that up. He was always — possessive. Weirdly so.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed. “Ray hasn’t accused Julia of anything. But he saw Anderson. And we think Anderson might be responsible for Julia’s death.”
Millie recoiled, her face paling further. “No. That can’t be.”
But Robert was already moving on. Julia had made an appointment with a psychologist the week before her death. An appointment for someone named Alex. No one — neither Ray nor Millie — knew an Alex. And Anderson? He was mentioned only in Ray’s fractured narrative, while Millie claimed not to know.
Later, Ray was called in by Robert’s team. They wanted to use virtual reality scanning, a way to reconstruct memories on a screen using brain scans when one tries to reimagine a past event. It was experimental, they said, but it might help the investigation.
Ray and Millie were fitted with headsets, transported into a virtual recreation of the house. Ray could picture Julia and him cooking together, one of their Sunday-lunch things. The memory of their embrace in the kitchen brought a smile to his lips. They had held each other close, savoring the comfort of the other’s presence. As Julia leaned into him, her neck brushed against his cheek. His embrace had tightened slightly, a protective instinct that masked the possessive edge he tried to hide.
The virtual recreation shifted to the backyard where Julia had died. The moment Ray saw it, something inside him snapped. He could see it all again — the fence, Anderson climbing over it, Julia’s body on the ground. His breathing quickened, his vision blurred with tears. He remembered picking something up, something small, and throwing it at Anderson as he ran.
Robert’s voice cut through the haze. “Ray, focus. What did you throw?”
Ray’s hands clenched. “I… I don’t remember.”
“Think,” Robert urged. “It’s important.”
Ray’s mind raced, but the memory was fractured, incomplete. He could feel the rage boiling up again, threatening to consume him.
The experiment went on till midnight. Millie’s memory was more stable, while Ray’s memory kept altering, and Robert’s team kept journaling every version of it. Robert understood what Ray might be going through, but being a crucial part of the investigation, he kept pushing him to re-think.
Two days later, Robert called Ray back to the station. His voice on the phone had been calm, too calm. Ray arrived at the station, his nerves on edge, his body buzzing with anticipation.
“Ray,” Robert began, “we found him. We found Anderson.”
Ray’s heart lurched. His hands trembled as he leaned forward. “Where is he?”
He asks him to arrive at the CBI building. Alone.
Ray arrived at the location, his eyes scanning Robert’s face for any sign of emotion. He found Robert’s expression marked by an impeccable calmness. Taking a seat in the small, dimly lit cabin, Ray noticed another figure beside Robert, a man in a coat. He seemed to be restless, his features betraying fear and worry, while he tried hard to maintain a poker face.
Robert exhaled slowly, his gaze steady. “Ray, during the virtual reality scan session, you said you picked something up. What you picked up was the murder weapon.”
Ray’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“Ray, there is no Anderson,” Robert said, his voice firm but gentle. “Julia booked the psychologist appointment… for you.”
Ray’s mind reeled, the world around him distorting blank. “No… that’s not right. Anderson — “
“This is Doctor Pete,” Robert interrupted, gesturing to the man beside him. “He’s been studying psychiatry and practising for 18 years.”
Ray’s eyes darted between the two men, unable to settle on either. The confusion etched on his face seemed to ripple through his entire body, making it hard for him to remain still. His entire frame appeared to be caught in a restless struggle, mirroring the turmoil within his mind.
“Ray, listen to me,” Robert said, leaning in. “You’re not well. Julia was trying to get you help. Anderson never existed. He’s a creation of your mind, a product of your Schizophrenia.
Ray stared at the wall, his face flushed with anger and tears. Through gritted teeth, he choked out, “Anderson is real — ” His voice quivered, a faint echo of his internal turmoil.
Robert cut him off gently but firmly. “Ray, schizophrenia can severely alter your perception of reality, leading to false beliefs and hallucinations.”
They exchanged a hollow look, the weight of the revelation sinking in.
“Perhaps,” Robert continued, his voice softening, “Anderson was a way for you to cope with the reality of what you did.”
