Chiang Mai smelled like wet concrete and frangipani. It was supposed to be a blessing. Songkran. The washing away of sins. But the old people knew better. They left coins at the riverbank anyway. They whispered to the water before dawn.

“Phi Nam takes what we don’t pay for.”

“The river remembers.”

“Don’t fake your merit.”

No one listened anymore. Not with the music. Not with the guns and the beer and the tourists screaming.The river listened anyway.

11:59 PM. Day 1. A dead soi off Tha Pae.

The tuk-tuk wasn’t running. It just sat there, idling in the dark like it was waiting.Inside, something moved.A girl. Pink tank top. She was laughing an hour ago. Now her mouth was open in a silent scream that never finished. Water poured from her nose. From her ears. From between her lips.

But her clothes weren’t wet. Her hair was soaked, plastered to her skull like she’d been held under. The seat beneath her was bone dry.On her tongue: a white frangipani. Petals already starting to brown.

In her fist: three old coins. Green. Carved with Lanna script no one used anymore.The driver was found two blocks away. Alive. Shaking. He kept saying the same thing:

“She got in alone. I didn’t see anyone else. Then the windows fogged up. From the inside. And I heard water. Like someone was drowning in the backseat. But when I looked —”

He started crying. “There was no one with her. Just the sound.”By 12:03 AM, the rain started.

Lt. Krit Nantawong didn’t like Songkran.

He didn’t like water on his skin. Didn’t like the noise. Didn’t like the way people used the festival to forget things.Ten years ago, he lost his brother to this holiday. Pulled under during a blessing. Body never found for three days. So he stood outside the tuk-tuk with his arms crossed and let the rain hit him.

“Accident,” Detective Saru said, making a wai to the empty street. He left a banana and incense on the curb.

“Phi Nam, boss. She took something she shouldn’t have.”

“People drown,” Krit said flatly.

“Spirits don’t leave coins.”He crouched. The girl’s eyes were open. Clouded. But in the reflection of them, for half a second, he thought he saw movement. Like ripples.He blinked. It was gone.Footsteps behind him. Fast. Reckless.

“Police line,” Krit said without turning

.“Yeah. I can read.”The voice was rough. Tired. Mocking.

Krit turned.

Mali stood there.

Bangkok Post badge clipped crooked to a soaked shirt. Hair dripping. Eyes too sharp for midnight. He looked like he hadn’t slept since Bangkok.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Krit said.

“And you’re not supposed to call it an accident,” Mai replied.

He didn’t look at Krit. He looked at the girl. His jaw ticked. He stepped closer. Peered into the tuk-tuk.

The smell hit him then. River mud. Old water. And something else. Copper.Mai exhaled.

“Her lungs are full of Ping River water. But we’re two kilometers from the river. So either she swam here, or someone brought the river to her.”Krit stared at him.

“Name.”

“Mai.”

“Don’t get in my way, Khun Mai.”Mai finally looked at him. There was something in his eyes. Not fear. Something worse. Recognition.

“Don’t lie to me, Lieutenant.”

Thunder.

A crack so loud it vibrated in their teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, the first Songkran speakers turned on. Bass rattling windows.Saru’s radio crackled.

“Unit 4. We got another one. Loi Kroh Road. Hotel room. Same M.O. Dry bed. Wet body. Frangipani in the mouth.”

Krit didn’t move. He was still watching Mai.

“Two in one night,” Mai said quietly.

“That’s not an accident. That’s a schedule.”

“Go home,” Krit said.

“I don’t have one here.”

“Then go to a hotel. Stay inside.”Mai laughed. It was a bitter sound.

“You think walls will stop it? Whatever this is?”He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a folded piece of sa paper. It was damp. Like it had been held in a wet hand.He didn’t open it. He held it out to Krit.

Krit took it.

The paper was cold.Inside, black ink bleeding at the edges

Day 1. Aran.

Day 2. Ton.

Day 3. Dew.

Day 4. Ohm.

Day 5. Beam.

Day 6. —

Day 7. Mali.

Mai.

His name.

Last on the list.

Krit looked up.

“Where did you get this?”

“Found it in my luggage. When I landed in Chiang Mai this afternoon.” Mai’s voice was steady.

Too steady.

“No stamp. No sender. Just... there.”For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain got heavier. It drummed on the tuk-tuk roof.Then, from inside the tuk-tuk — a sound. A drip.Both of them looked.The girl hadn’t moved. But water was now running from the corner of her mouth. Slow. Deliberate. Like she was still drowning.Saru swore and made another wai.Krit’s hand went to his gun out of instinct. There was no one there.Mai didn’t flinch. He just watched the water.

“When you figure out how they’re doing it,” he said,

“call me. Before Day 2.”

He turned and walked into the rain. Didn’t look back.Krit watched him go. Then looked down at the paper again.

Day 7.

Mali.

The music outside got louder. The streets were about to flood with people and water and noise. And somewhere in that chaos, the Phi Nam had already chosen its second offering.Krit folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

“Secure the scene,” he told Saru.

“And find out who Mali Rattanakorn is.”Because the killer knew his name. Which meant Krit was already too late.

To be continued.......