I take a half step back, startled.
She blinks hard, jaw clenched, breathing fast—then quickly steadies herself.
Her voice lowers. “Don’t do that again. We don’t want to shatter your illusions, now, do we?”
I nod slowly, chastened. “I didn’t mean to.... I just—”
“I know,” she cuts in, gaze flicking away. “Not the time.”
And for a second, just one, I see the corner of her mouth twitch. Not in a smile. In restraint.
Like she’s holding back the storm with the last thread of her self-control. Because maybe—maybe—that time with me meant something more to her. Unlike how it’s been seeming since she came back from the dead.
We’re sitting in the far corner of the café. A quiet booth where the sun barely filters in. She’s holding her phone like it’s a shield, her fingers curled tight around it, not even pretending to scroll. Just... waiting.
Waiting for me to speak. Probably so she can take notes and decide whether I’m wasting her time.
I take a breath and try not to overthink it.
“I found out almost a year ago thatSunrise Homewas your orphanage.”
She doesn’t react much. Just a small nod. An acknowledgment, not an invitation. But it feels like a silent go on.
“I think I saw the signs properly four months ago. A ten-year-old girl who’d been adopted was found dead... during a cruise in Kerala. I know the reports said she drowned, but—”
I swallow.
“Her name was...” I clear my throat twice. “Khushi. And she was... she was bright. One of the sharpest kids I’d ever met. I wanted to make sure she had a good life, so I tracked her. Quietly. Checked in from time to time. The police reports saidshe went overboard and drowned. But the adoptive parents? They weren’t even in the state when it happened.”
Still nothing from her. Just... typing. Calm. Mechanical.God, is she always this detached?
“So I dug,” I add. “Turns out, her listed adoptive parents were seventy-three and seventy-seven. That didn’t feel right. I assumed it was a trafficking mishap. But nothing like it came up again, so eventually I just... filed it away. I only ever brought it up with Pratham Uncle. You know—”
“That DGP. I remember,” she says, voice clipped.
The way she says it sends a ripple of unease down my spine.
That DGP?
He’s the highest-ranking man I know. Someone people panic over when his name shows up in their caller ID. But she talks about him like he’s just some mildly annoying bureaucrat. That casual dismissal?
Terrifying.
I force myself to continue. “He couldn’t do anything. Not officially. I’ve just been keeping an eye on things since,” I mumble. “Trying to catch anything suspicious.”
She nods again, then looks up. “Send me Khushi’s case file. If you have it. Or... fuck it. I’ll find it myself. Last name?”
My throat tightens, but I push the word out. “Joshi.”
She nods, already typing again—probably a background check.
We lapse into silence.
I fidget, and then ask the question that’s been gnawing at me for the last twelve hours.
“Are you... a cop? What are you?”
She looks up, brow furrowing like she’s surprised I had the gall to ask.
