Saghbine Lake Mystery | سر بحيرة صغبين
"She writes mystery novels at her cabin near Saghbine Lake. He's the detective investigating a cold case that mirrors her latest book. Fiction and reality blur, and so do their boundaries. 'Inti el sir elli ma ballish' (أنتِ السر اللي ما حلّيته)."
Saghbine Lake Mystery
سر بحيرة صغبين
Fiction tells truths.
I've written twelve mystery novels, all set in Lebanon, all featuring crimes that never happened—until now.
My latest plot just appeared in reality.
I'm Roula.
Forty-eight, reclusive writer, shaped by sedentary years and imagination. My cabin at Saghbine holds my secrets.
Detective Abbas Saade thinks I hold other secrets too.
"Your book describes the exact murder method."
"Coincidence."
"Three details match exactly. Unpublished details."
"Writers research crime scenes."
"This crime scene was sealed."
He's fifty-one.
ISF detective, cynical eyes, sharp mind. He suspects me—which would be flattering if it weren't also terrifying.
"I didn't kill anyone."
"I know. I've cleared you."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because someone used your book as a blueprint. I need your help understanding why."
We work together.
My imagination, his investigation. The case unfolds like one of my plots—but darker.
"How do you know what criminals think?"
"Everyone thinks like a criminal, sometimes. I just write it down."
"That's disturbing."
"That's honesty."
Late nights at my cabin.
Case files and coffee. His cynicism meets my creativity. Something else builds too.
"Why mysteries?" he asks.
"Because life doesn't make sense. At least in fiction, things resolve."
"Does your life need resolving?"
"Whose doesn't?"
"I don't usually work with civilians."
"And I don't usually help police." I pour more coffee. "But here we are."
"Here we are." He looks at me differently. "Inti el sir elli ma ballish."
"The mystery I haven't solved?"
"The only one I want to."
The kiss happens at midnight.
Case files forgotten, lake silver through the window. His detective's hands find my waist.
"Abbas—"
"This is against protocol—"
"Good thing I'm fiction, then."
We make love with the lake watching.
My writing cabin, my world, now shared. He undresses me like unwrapping evidence.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Large. Pale. Writer-soft—"
"Magnificent. The word is magnificent."
He worships me investigatively.
Finding every sensitive spot. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Abbas—"
"Let me discover everything. Leave no mystery."
His tongue between my thighs.
Detective precision, probing depth. I grip my desk chair, crying out.
"Ya Allah—"
"Good evidence. Continue."
When he enters me, plot thickens.
We move together with investigation rhythm—question and answer, theory and proof.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax solves everything.
We cry out together—case cracked, bodies surrendered. Then silence, lake, aftermath.
One year later
The case closes.
My book's plot was stolen by a fan-turned-killer. Abbas solved it. I wrote the true crime version.
"Dedicated to A," he reads. "The only detective who solved me."
"Accurate?"
"The only review that matters." He pulls me close. "Now—what's your next mystery?"
Alhamdulillah.
For lakes that hold secrets.
For detectives who probe.
For writers whose fiction becomes real.
The End.