She stared at him.
‘They’ve done more of an … obituary-hero kind of profile.’
‘Hero profile?’ What does that even mean?’
Sen hesitated. ‘I think it’s better if you read it yourself.’ He pulled out his phone, typed and then shoved it back in his pocket. ‘I sent the link to your phone. I’ll stay here if you want.’
‘Sen, what are you saying?’
‘They called your dad a hero cop. They painted him like some great man and you and I both know he wasn’t. I don’t want to open that link again because if I do, I’m going to lose it.’
He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘So … yeah. I don’t really know what to say to you, Kaavi.’
Kaavi saw the tension in Sen’s jaw, the anger behind his eyes.
‘You know, Sen,’ she said slowly, ‘Mom and I … we were always seen as my father’s victims. Everyone assumed it was just us.’
She paused and then shook her head. ‘But I never thought about you. You were his victim too.’
He looked away, but she kept going.
‘You were a young lawyer, just out of university and suddenly you were dragged into his mess. And you had to clean it up. You had to protect me.’
‘You know, Kaavs,’ Sen said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual sharpness, ‘I used to hate your father. I mean really hatehim.’
He stopped, exhaled. ‘I hated him to the point where… okay, never mind. Let’s just say it was deep.’
Kaavi watched him carefully.
‘But then one afternoon, back when we first got to London, you remember that dingy little apartment you insisted Granddad rent for you? You rushed in excited about being invited to an audition. You were so hopeful and determined and it hit me: without your father, we wouldn’t have you. While I still hated what he did to you, a part of me just let it go because, without him, there wouldn’t be you.’ He let out a long breath, like the weight of that truth had been sitting on his chest for years.
‘Wow, Sen. That was … wow. That means a lot to me.’
Then she added softly, ‘You know, one day you’re going to be a great father.’
‘Hey, cool it,’ he said, grinning. ‘I just got married a few weeks ago. Kids are future talk. Far, far away future.’
He smiled, then the smile faded just enough for sincerity to slip back in. ‘But seriously, Kaavi. Do you want me to hang around while you read the article?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Sen. I think I need to do this one alone. But thank you for always having my back.’
He gave a small nod, got up, and walked to the door. Just as he reached it, he looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Don’t forget about Sunday evening.’
Then he was gone.
Kaavi locked the door behind him, then went to her bedroom. The look on her cousin’s face when he mentioned the article was enough to tell her it would hit a nerve. She didn’t need to read it to know it would trigger her. All she wanted was to lie down. She was just tired of everything.
She got comfortable and opened the link. The article loaded with a picture of her father in uniform. She knew it was recentbecause his hair was grey. In all the years they were estranged, she’d never asked to see a photo of him. She hadn’t known how he’d aged until that day in the hospital, frail and on his deathbed. But here, in this image, he was smiling. Smiling like he hadn’t wronged his daughter, smiling like he wasn’t estranged from his only child, smiling like his wife hadn’t lived in fear of him. No, he looked every bit the hero. The perfect picture of a police officer.
She started to read. Sen was right: they’d painted her father as a hero. She snorted at the line about him dedicating his life to serving others. The anger came slowly, then all at once. But it was the last line that shattered her:
‘Jay Archary is survived by his wife, Yanam, and his only daughter, Kaavi.’
She was furious. She should’ve thrown her phone at the wall, but she didn’t. Instead, she started to cry. The ugly kind. The shaking, painful sobs.
She cried for six-year-old Kaavi, who already knew something was wrong because daddies weren’t supposed to be mean.
She cried for 18-year-old Kaavi, desperate and helpless, sitting in a prison cell her father had put her in.
