Eva Karahan Case #2 – Working Title: “Final Curtain”

Eva Karahan Case #2 – Final Curtain

by H. Ozturk

### Prologue – The Final Rehearsal

The velvet curtains swayed gently as if the old theatre were breathing.

Somewhere backstage, a light flickered and buzzed. The scent of dust, sweat, and wood polish lingered in the air like a final bow refusing to leave the stage.

On the center of the grand stage at Rosehill Theatre, under the soft glow of an overhead spotlight, lay a woman in costume—her gown crimson, her lips slightly parted, one hand clutching the script she was meant to perform.

At first glance, it looked like part of the act. The final death scene of *The Last Empress*. The audience—even the crew—thought it a remarkable performance.

Until someone screamed.

And silence fell.

In the wings, the director dropped his headset. A stagehand turned pale. The house lights snapped on.

That was when they saw the pool of blood.

She hadn’t missed her cue.

She had taken her final one.

### Chapter One – A Role Too Real

Inspector Eva Karahan stood in the aisle of the Rosehill Theatre, arms folded, eyes narrowed at the stage.

The auditorium still smelled of panic—sweat, hairspray, and metallic fear. Forensics moved with quiet urgency around the body of **Delia Moore**, age 34, acclaimed stage actress and London’s darling of the West End.

She was supposed to die in the final scene of the play. But this wasn’t stagecraft.

A retractable dagger had been swapped. The blade was real.

Eva climbed onto the stage, heels echoing against the floorboards. The spotlights were still on, casting long, theatrical shadows. Delia’s lifeless form looked almost regal in death—crimson silk gown, tiara tilted, mascara streaked like war paint.

“We’ve got 47 people in the building at the time of death,” Malik said, handing Eva the initial report. “Stage crew, cast, lighting, the director, and a few understudies.”

Eva flipped the file. “Any enemies?”

Malik gave a tight smile. “It’s theatre.”

She crouched beside the body. Her hand hovered over the script still clutched in Delia’s fingers. One line had been underlined in red pen:

*‘If I die tonight, let it be my best performance.’*

Eva exhaled slowly. This wasn’t just murder.

This was curated. Timed. Scripted.

She looked out into the empty seats and felt the weight of every unseen eye.

“Let the curtain rise,” she murmured. “We’ve got a killer who knows how to stage a tragedy.”

### Chapter Two – The Director’s Cut

The director, Julian Grant, sat alone in the theatre’s greenroom—legs crossed, cigarette trembling between his fingers. His tailored black suit clashed with the anxiety in his eyes.

Eva entered quietly, studying the man who had shaped London's most talked-about production of the year.

“Inspector Karahan,” he said, rising half-heartedly. “Delia was the soul of this production.”

“Did she have enemies, Mr. Grant?”

He hesitated. “Only the kind success brings. And a few understudies praying for laryngitis.”

Eva sat across from him. “Who had access to the props table last night?”

Julian exhaled smoke. “Technically, only the prop master, Alistair. But during final rehearsals, it’s chaos. Actors wander, assistants forget boundaries.”

Eva scribbled notes. “Delia underlined a line in her script. ‘If I die tonight…’”

Julian’s face paled. “She said that to me. Joking. Right before the run-through.”

“Did she seem afraid?”

“No. She was luminous. Focused. But maybe... sharper than usual. Like she knew something was off.”

Eva’s eyes narrowed. “Was she seeing anyone?”

Julian looked away. “Not officially. But I heard whispers about her and the lead actor. James Fairchild.”

Eva closed her notebook.

Lovers. Jealousy. Ambition. The classics.

Only this time, the drama hadn’t ended with applause—it ended with a corpse.

### Chapter Three – Understudy

The understudy’s dressing room was smaller, dimly lit, and noticeably colder. Eva noticed the cracked mirror, the frayed carpet, and a stack of worn scripts bound by a ribbon.

**Annabel Rhodes**, 26, sat at her vanity with her legs crossed and eyes unreadable. Her fingers toyed with a lipstick tube, the color nearly identical to the smear Delia had worn in her final scene.

“Inspector,” she said softly, not looking up. “Am I a suspect?”

Eva stepped in. “Everyone is until I have answers.”

Annabel smirked. “If I wanted her dead, why would I stay in the building?”

“Because actors rarely leave the stage unless the spotlight does,” Eva replied. “Tell me about your relationship with Delia.”

“She was brilliant. Demanding. Obsessed with perfection.”

“Jealousy?”

Annabel turned. “I envied her talent. Not her loneliness. She burned brightly but alone. No one gets to the top without making a few enemies. Or lovers.”

Eva raised an eyebrow. “Julian mentioned James Fairchild.”

Annabel laughed. “Everyone knew. Rehearsals turned into love scenes offstage. Until last week, when she threw a prop at him. Something about betrayal.”

Eva leaned forward. “What kind?”

“He was seen leaving your victim’s flat. At midnight.”

Eva scribbled the note and stood.

Annabel’s voice followed her out: “If James is involved, Inspector, be careful. He’s very good at pretending.”

### Chapter Four – A Man with Many Masks

James Fairchild met Eva in the foyer of the Rosehill Theatre, flanked by two junior officers. He looked like a man auditioning for innocence—perfectly groomed, calm, cooperative.

“Inspector Karahan,” he said smoothly. “I was told you wanted to speak to me.”

“You were close to Delia Moore,” Eva stated.

James sighed. “We were lovers. Then colleagues. Then... I don’t know. Rivals, maybe. She could turn any scene into a battlefield.”

Eva’s gaze sharpened. “And yet, you were seen leaving her flat last week.”

He didn’t flinch. “She called me. Said she needed to talk. It was about the play. She thought someone was watching her.”

“Did she say who?”

James shook his head. “No. Just that someone had been in her dressing room. That props were being tampered with. She sounded... scared.”

Eva took a step closer. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone after her death?”

“I thought I’d be blamed.”

Eva crossed her arms. “Maybe you should be.”

James’s composure cracked for just a second. “Look, Inspector. I may be a lot of things, but I didn’t kill her. I loved her. In my own way.”

“Then help me prove it. Who else knew you were seeing her?”

James hesitated. “Annabel. She found us once. She didn’t say anything, but I saw it in her face. She hated her for it.”

Eva made a note. “And the prop master? Alistair?”

“Strange man. Protective of the set. Hates actors.”

Eva felt the pieces turning. Someone had rewritten the script—and Delia wasn’t meant to survive the final act.

### Chapter Five – A Script Rewritten

The prop room was a world of its own—dim, cluttered, and oddly reverent, like a mausoleum of forgotten characters. Eva ducked beneath hanging ropes and costume racks to find **Alistair Griggs**, the prop master, hunched over a workbench.

He didn’t look up when she arrived. “Another scene to inspect, Inspector?”

“This isn’t a scene. It’s a murder investigation.”

He chuckled. “Actors die every night on this stage. This one just didn’t get back up.”

Eva didn’t smile. “Tell me about the knife.”

Alistair turned, eyes sharp. “I made the original. Retractable. Harmless. I keep it locked between rehearsals.”

“Then someone switched it.”

“They’d need time. Privacy. And knowledge of the staging. That narrows it down to the main cast and crew.”

Eva looked around. “Did Delia ever come in here?”

He hesitated. “Once. Last week. Said her tiara felt ‘off.’ Wanted it adjusted. But I saw her looking at the dagger drawer.”

Eva frowned. “Did she suspect something?”

“She left without a word. Just stared at the dagger, then walked out.”

Eva picked up a spare script from the bench. Scribbled inside was a quote not found in the play:

*“Every part must end. Even the lies we wear.”*

She closed the script slowly. Someone wasn’t just rewriting props—they were rewriting the truth.

### Chapter Six – Smoke and Mirrors

The theatre’s backstage corridor twisted like a labyrinth. Eva followed the scent of fresh paint and aging wood to a forgotten hallway, where a single lightbulb buzzed above a door marked 'STORAGE – KEEP OUT'.

Inside, she found dust-covered set pieces, fake columns, and a half-built mirror frame leaning against the wall. But what caught her eye was the faint outline of a camera lens embedded in the back of the mirror.

“Surveillance,” Malik muttered, examining it beside her. “Old. Wired. But not dead.”

Eva traced the cable. “Where does it lead?”

They followed the wires to a locked utility closet beneath the stage. Malik picked it with ease. Inside: a low-end monitor, a worn-out VCR, and dozens of tapes.

They played the last recorded footage.

There—grainy but unmistakable—Delia stood in her dressing room. She was arguing. With James.

“You promised!” she screamed. “You said she was out of your life.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Lower your voice. This isn’t the time.”

The tape skipped. In the next frame, Delia was alone, crying, tearing pages from a script.

Eva paused the tape. “Rewind.”

They zoomed in. Behind Delia, in the mirror—barely visible—was a third figure. A shadow. Watching.

Eva froze. “That’s not James.”

Malik looked at her. “Then who was it?”

Smoke and mirrors. Someone had orchestrated this like a scene. But now Eva was holding the script.

### Chapter Seven – The Trap

Eva stood in the wings of the Rosehill Theatre, watching the crew reset the stage. The reopening performance was scheduled for that night, as if death could be swept aside by routine and applause.

But Eva had a different plan.

“We’ll let the show go on,” she told Malik. “And we’ll watch who can’t stay away.”

They planted decoy props—an exact replica of the dagger, rigged with a silent tracker. Every dressing room was under surveillance, and only a select few knew about the changes.

James, Annabel, and Alistair were each given a copy of the revised script—one containing a fabricated final scene.

“You think they’ll take the bait?” Malik asked.

Eva scanned the empty house. “They already have.”

Hours later, as the curtains rose, Eva watched from the darkness of the tech booth. Every heartbeat, every movement, was recorded.

The play unfolded flawlessly—until the final scene. Annabel took the stage in Delia’s role. Her eyes widened as she reached for the prop dagger.

It was gone.

Suddenly, from the shadows of the wings, a figure emerged.

Eva whispered into her mic, “Go.”

Malik and two officers intercepted the intruder just before they reached the stage.

It was Alistair.

In his coat pocket: the real blade. And in his satchel—a worn script with Delia’s name scrawled violently across the title page.

Eva descended the booth steps. The trap had worked.

But something still didn’t add up.

### Chapter Eight – The Final Bow

Alistair sat in interrogation like a stagehand caught under a spotlight. Sweat pooled at his collar, his fingers twitching like broken marionettes.

“You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely. “She ruined everything.”

Eva’s voice was calm. “Delia Moore?”

He nodded. “She humiliated me. Treated me like a servant. She destroyed props, rewrote cues, mocked my craft.”

“That’s not a reason to kill.”

Alistair leaned forward, eyes bloodshot. “It wasn’t just me. She threatened the theatre itself. Wanted to replace the crew. Modernize everything. She had no respect.”

Eva studied him. “So you took it personally.”

He smiled bitterly. “I took it theatrically.”

Malik entered with a report in hand. He whispered in Eva’s ear. Her expression shifted.

“What is it?” Alistair asked.

Eva stood. “The fingerprints on the script drawer don’t match yours.”

Alistair blinked. “Then... who?”

Eva walked to the mirror in the corner. “The shadow behind Delia in the footage wasn’t you.”

She turned slowly. “It was Annabel.”

Silence.

Malik was already moving. “She’s gone,” he said. “Didn’t show up for tonight’s curtain call.”

Eva felt the weight of it settle in.

The real killer had taken her final bow—and slipped out before the encore.

### Chapter Nine – The Spotlight

Annabel Rhodes was found in a hotel bar across the river, sipping champagne alone beneath a chandelier. She didn’t run far—just far enough to make Eva come to her.

Eva approached slowly. “You missed your curtain call.”

Annabel smiled faintly. “It was never my show.”

“But you wanted it to be.”

She swirled the glass. “Delia never let go. Not of roles, not of people. James? He was a trophy. She kept him for the spotlight.”

Eva sat beside her. “So you followed her. Studied her. Rehearsed her every move.”

“She was never supposed to die.”

“But you watched. You knew the prop was switched.”

Annabel set her glass down. “I thought she’d notice. I thought she’d check. But she didn’t.”

Eva leaned in. “Why Alistair?”

“Because he hated her. Because he’d believe it was justice.”

“And the shadow in the mirror?”

Annabel’s eyes gleamed. “A ghost. Every theatre has one.”

Eva exhaled. “You choreographed this. Every line, every betrayal, every death.”

Annabel rose, lifting her coat. “Tell them what you want, Inspector. But between us?”

She paused by the exit.

“It was the best performance of my life.”

And with that, she stepped back into the night.

### Chapter Ten – Curtain Call

Rain streaked the windows of the station as Eva stared out at the grey London morning. The file on Delia Moore’s murder was now stamped CLOSED—but the echo of the case lingered.

James Fairchild had vanished from public view, retreating into silence. Julian Grant reopened the play with a new cast and a revised script. The Rosehill Theatre braced itself for a fresh premiere, pretending the past could be painted over.

And Annabel Rhodes?

Arrested. Confessed. But not remorseful.

Eva read the final line of Annabel’s written statement:

*“I did what all great actresses do. I found the spotlight and made it mine.”*

Eva closed the folder and placed it gently on her desk.

Malik entered with coffee. “Next case?”

Eva smiled faintly. “There’s always another scene.”

She took the coffee, stood, and looked at the whiteboard where new photos were already pinned up—another victim, another story waiting to unfold.

And as she walked out of her office, the words from Delia’s final performance echoed faintly in her mind:

*‘If I die tonight, let it be my best performance.’*

Eva wasn’t chasing applause. She was chasing the truth.

And the curtain would never truly fall.