“But trust me,” he continues. “The problem is much larger than that.”
That’s fucking it.
I shove the door open, expression calm, but my pulse hammering. He jumps, startled, phone still in hand.
“I... I’ll call you back, Ishika.”
Ishika?
He’s talking about a confidential murder case with his sister-in-law?
I shut the door behind me—quietly this time. My hand is already resting on the butt of my gun as I face him.
“Aady—”
“Why would you share confidential case information with civilians?” My voice is sharp. Clipped. “With yourfamily?”
His brows pull together and he stiffens when he sees where my hand is. “What?”
“Don’t act dumb.” I take a step forward. “You were talking about Khushi Joshi’s case. Iheardyou.”
Something shifts in his face—confusion melting into slow realization. And then relief.
He exhales hard and lifts his hands in surrender.
“Aadya... I wasn’t talking aboutthatKhushi.”
I stare. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t talking about Khushi Joshi, Aadya,” he says softly. “I was talking about...Khushi Sharma. My little sister.”
I blink and snap. “You don’t have a sister.”
“I did,” he says. “She was four months old when she died. I was six years old. Vicky was eight.”
His voice lowers, quieter. “It’s... resurfacing now. Some stuff with my parents. They didn’t talk about her growing up. There was—anyway. Ishika and I were just... processing. That’s all.”
My hand falls away from my holster, shame creeping up my spine like a rash.
“You have a sister,” I murmur.
“Had,” he corrects me, giving me a small, broken smile. “Khushi.”
I exhale, the tension draining all at once. Dots suddenly connecting.
“So... that’s why you were so invested in the Joshi case?” I ask gently. “Because of the name?”
He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat of silence. No more tension. Just something heavy and quiet hanging between us.
“You had a sister,” I mutter.
He shrugs like it’s fine. But his eyes are far away.
I blink. Once. Twice.
How the hell did I not know?
