Behind the shadow

I was in London at the time—settling into life abroad with studies, a job, and the dreams I had always carried. I used to speak with my mother almost daily over the phone. But lately, she had seemed a bit unsettled—her voice tired, her speech scattered. I thought, She’s aging. It’s natural.
Six years earlier, my father had passed away, leaving behind a two-story house, some land, and a small amount in the bank. I had already left for the UK by then. My mother managed everything. Don't sell anything, I used to tell her. One day I’ll come back.”
But that return never came.
The shocking news was that Mother has passed away. They said she slipped in the bathroom and died instantly.
I ran back to Bangladesh quickly. Grief, relatives, tears—it all felt strangely silent. Only my mother’s face kept flashing before my eyes.
While handling the formalities, something odd caught my attention. I got hold of my mother's phone. The night before her death, a call had been made to an unknown international number.
Time of the call: 11:42 p.m.
But I hadn’t called her that night.
Even stranger, I found a voice recording on her phone.
A man's whispered voice said: > "Digitalis... a single drop is sufficient. A little more, and the heart will slowly stop.”
My blood ran cold. Digitalis is a powerful heart medication that can be toxic in large amounts. I didn’t go to the police. However, suspicion had already been sown. There was no theft. No signs of a break-in. Then how did she die?
Soon, a police detective showed up—an older, composed man named Rafiq. In a calm tone, he said,
> “We’re reopening your mother’s case. The autopsy shows an overdose of Digitalis in her system.”
I froze.
He asked, “Did you know she was allergic to that medication?”
I replied, “No... I had no idea. I didn’t suspect anything like this.”
He looked straight at me.
> “You were abroad, yes. Nowadays, however, anything can be arranged remotely, including automated phone calls, online prescription orders, and even hired help. I gave a nervous laugh. “Are you accusing me?”
He said,
> “You’re the sole heir. Additionally, a request to transfer all of her property to your name was submitted a week prior to her death. I said nothing.
Detective Rafiq continued, “You’ll need to come to the station. We have some questions.”
I cooperated. Passport checks, phone logs, travel records—they reviewed everything. My location on the night of her death? I was at a business meeting in London. CCTV confirmed it.
Then came an unexpected twist.
The policeman stated, > “Your cousin—Rakib—used a spoofed international number to make that call. He’s been traced.”
Rakib was caught. He had helped my mother with errands and worked around the house occasionally. The police suspected he had heard the voice message and mixed the drug into her food.
However, Rakib did not confess. He only said,
> “I was just doing what I was told. I didn’t know who it was for.”
The detective told me,
> “You’re clear—for now. However, the case is not over. I nodded. Said nothing. merely gazed out the window. However, there is something that is unknown. When I returned home after my mother’s death, I found the medicine bottle myself. The label read something else. Inside was Digitalis.
I threw the bottle into the pond.
There is yet another issue. One day, Rakib told me,
> “Didn’t you tell me to mix the medicine with her food? I thought you meant that, right? I remained silent. Then said,
> “You didn’t understand what I really meant.”
Rakib stopped talking. I'm back in London today. The case remains open, but everyone believes I’m innocent.
Still, some nights I wake up suddenly—drenched in sweat.
I hear my mother’s voice whispering behind me,
> “Did you really do this?”