‘You don’t deserve to hold on to what’s left of him just because you were the last person there,’ Naman says like the asshole he is. ‘Go inside. Pick it up. Do the right thing.’
‘She will do what she wants to do,’ Raghav says, edging in between us.
Yash shakes his head, scoffs under his breath—‘Shameless’—and turns, walking towards the building without looking back.
Naman glares at me one last time. ‘I want the money,’ he says, low and hard, then strides off after Yash. ‘I will do whatever it takes—’
‘You have done it already,’ I hiss. ‘You killed him.’
Before he can answer, I walk past him.
Inside, the office is too cold. A potted plant near the entrance is dying. A place of death, this. There’s a woman behind the desk, typing like her life depends on it, her nails clicking sharply against the keys.
I step forward.
‘Aditi Gupta,’ I say. ‘Aman’s . . .’
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even register the pause.
She pulls open a drawer and slides out a thick white envelope.
‘Sign here,’ she says, her voice devoid of warmth.
I sign.
The envelope reads:Aman Sareen—Beneficiary: Aditi Gupta
I hold it like it’s radiating heat. Like it could burn through me if I hold it too long. I carry it like hot metal. Outside, Raghav is waiting, shifting from one foot to another, nervous like the first day I saw him. I hand it to him silently. And then we walk to the car.
In a distance, we see Naman on his motorcycle, fuming.
‘It’s your money,’ Raghav reminds me.
21
Raghav
The envelope sits in the centre of the table like it’s not ours.
We’re at a Chinese fast food joint that seems permanently stuck in the early 2000s. Basically, the best kind, ones you can trust. The red plastic chairs wobble every time I shift. The table is laminated with a wood print, and it’s chipped at the corners. Soy sauce stains are everywhere. Steam clouds the kitchen glass. A bell rings every few minutes. We, like Pavlovian dogs, look at the waiter. Everyone’s order looks the same, so we aren’t sure whose order it is until it reaches the table.
I feel on edge.
The ceiling fan ticks with each rotation. Someone has to start speaking or I will go mad, I think. I can’t get Megha’s mother’s eyes out of my mind. Or her father’s. But mostly, her brother’s. I mean, in all honesty, fuck grief. Why isn’t there a timeline for this? When will it lessen? When will it feel manageable? Look at me, cribbing. I just met her parents and look at me. But fuck them too, right? They didn’t love her enough to let her live her life.
Our food comes to the table.
It looks coloured and disgusting, and great at the same time.
I look up at Aditi. Her arms are folded so tightly that her shoulders have inched up closer to her ears. Her eyes flick to the envelope again and again.
Tejal, across from her, has started stabbing her noodles impatiently. Sumrit, next to me, has started eating already.Good that he has, or he would have started boring us with how he needs to put carbs in, or his muscles will waste away.
Unfortunately, he still speaks, ‘Look... I think you can give this Naman guy a part of it. They are shit, I’m sure, they are shit, bro, but I mean... you will at least get him off your back.’
Tejal puts her fork down. ‘What are you saying, Sumrit? Please just eat. You don’t know the story.’
Even Tejal doesn’t know the entire story, but coming to Aditi’s defence is now a reflex for her. Sumrit would also help me hide a body, but Tejal would convince Aditi that murder’s acceptable. The story Tejal’s talking about, I know snatches of it—things Aditi let slip over the last year in moments of anger, sadness or exhaustion—and pieced together my version. But for Tejal and Sumrit, all they know is that Aman’s family are ‘bad people’ and don’t deserve the money. They’ve taken her word for it until now.
