[POV: Divya]
The key felt alien in my hand. Cold, brass, heavy with the weight of a memory. Amit had given it to me six months ago, sliding it across a sticky café table with a ridiculous flourish. "For emergencies," he'd said. "Or for when you need to escape Aunt Meera's 'wellness smoothies.' It's your sanctuary too."
I'd used it twice. Once to surprise him with a birthday cake. Once when I had a massive fight with Aunt Meera about my "life direction" and needed to cry somewhere that wasn't home.
Now, it was the key to a tomb.
The flat was in one of those new, soulless towers in Gurugram they called "EcoCity Heights." All glass and chrome, smelling of fresh paint and broken promises. His unit was on the 14th floor. The corridor was eerily silent, the only sound the hum of the elevator machinery behind me.
This is a mission, I told myself, echoing Rajesh's stupid corporate jargon. Asset retrieval. Intel gathering. It made me feel less like a grave robber.
I slid the key into the lock. The click was too loud. I pushed the door open.
The smell hit me first. Not decay. Absence. Dust, yes, and the ghost of oil paint, but mostly it was the smell of air that hadn't been breathed in over a week. The smell of a life on pause, forever.
I stepped inside and shut the door, leaning against it.
The main room was exactly as he'd left it. A hurricane of creativity frozen in time. Canvases leaned against every wall—vibrant, swirling abstracts, the unfinished series about "light." Tubes of paint were scattered on a makeshift plywood table, caps off, colours hardened into solid tears. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the floor, a skin of mould forming on the surface.
My chest tightened. This wasn't a crime scene to the police. But it was. The crime was the interruption. The story that would never be finished.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Logistics. Find the data."
I started with the obvious. No desk, just the paint table. I sifted through piles of sketchbooks, loose sheets, receipts. Mostly studies of light, colour charts, frantic notes to himself. "More phthalo blue." "Try cadmium red mix." "REMEMBER: Divya's eyes in sunset = burnt sienna + a hint of regret."
I stopped, my finger tracing the words. A hint of regret. What did that mean? Did he know something was coming?
I shook my head. Don't romanticize. Don't spiral. Look for facts.
I moved to the small kitchenette. Fridge held a sprouting onion and three bottles of beer. No hidden notes taped to the ceiling. The bedroom was just a mattress on the floor, buried under a mountain of clothes. I searched pockets, feeling like a thief. I found a movie ticket stub (The Dark Knight, we'd seen it for the fifth time), a broken charcoal pencil, and two rupees.
Nothing.
The bathroom. His toothbrush. Still damp. The police hadn't come here. This wasn't where he died. This was where he lived. And the evidence of his life was just… ordinary mess.
Frustration bubbled up, mixing with the grief. Rajesh was probably uncovering shell companies in the Cayman Islands. I was finding laundry.
Then I saw it. Tucked behind the toilet tank, almost invisible. A small, fireproof lockbox. The kind you get for passports.
My heart leapt. I pulled it out. It was locked. A four-digit code.
My birthday? 1807. Nothing.
His birthday. 2105. Click.
The lock released. I lifted the lid.
No stacks of cash. No damning documents. Just two things.
A USB drive. Plain, black.
And a photograph.
I picked up the photo first. It was old, crumpled. A picture of a young couple, maybe in their late twenties. The man had Amit's smile. The woman had his eyes. They were standing in front of the India Gate, squinting in the sun. His parents. The ones who died when he was four. He'd rarely talked about them. "It makes Dadi-ji too sad," he'd said.
Why hide this?
I flipped the photo over. On the back, in a handwriting that wasn't Amit's (it was neater, more angular), was written: For Vikram. A reminder of what family costs.
A chill skittered down my spine. This wasn't Amit's note. It was addressed to Vikram. A reminder. From who?
I pocketed the photo and grabbed the USB drive. This was it. This had to be something.
I needed to see what was on it. I didn't have a laptop. But Amit did. An old, brick-like MacBook was under a pile of shirts. I pulled it out, plugged it in, and prayed it had charge.
It blinked to life, asking for a password. I tried the usuals. Failed.
Think. What would he use?
I typed: DappledLight (his phrase from the sketchbook).
Denied.
LiquidGold.
Denied.
I took a breath, looked around the room of colour. I typed: PhthaloBlue.
The screen unlocked.
I jammed in the USB drive. A single folder popped up. Labeled: SUNLIGHT.
Inside, not pictures. Spreadsheets. PDFs. Financial statements. They were scans, messy, some with handwritten notes in Amit's scrawl. I opened one. It was a bank ledger for something called The Sunlight Foundation. Transactions. Inflows, outflows. Amit had highlighted rows in digital yellow.
Donations from: Sharma Family Trust.
Disbursements to: V_Spectra Ltd.
Disbursements to: Horizon Property Developers.
Disbursements to: Vikram Sharma - Personal Account.
The numbers made my head swim. We're talking lakhs. Maybe crores. This wasn't a charity. It was a money carousel. And Amit had been mapping the whole ride.
He hadn't just hired a P.I. He'd become one.
I ejected the drive, shoved the laptop back, and placed the lockbox exactly where I found it. My hands were shaking. This was real. This was the "truth" he wanted to confront Vikram with.
I had to get this to Rajesh. Now.
I left the flat, locking the door carefully behind me. The sterile hallway felt menacing now. The security camera at the end of the hall seemed to stare right at me.
Paranoia is just awareness in a dangerous situation, I thought, channeling my inner Rajesh again.
I took the elevator down, clutching my tote bag with the USB drive and photo like it was a live bomb. The lobby was empty except for a bored security guard watching cricket on a tiny TV.
I stepped out into the early evening. The auto-rickshaw stand was across the street. I started walking, my head down, my senses screaming.
I heard the car first. A soft, idle purr that didn't match the rattle of the diesel autos. A silver-grey Toyota Fortuner. Fancy. Dark tinted windows.
It had been parked across from the tower entrance when I arrived. I was sure of it.
And now, as I reached the auto stand, it pulled out.
Not speeding. Just… following. Keeping a steady two car lengths behind the auto I finally flagged down.
"Just drive," I told the auto-wallah. "Towards Delhi. I'll tell you where."
"Fixed fare?" he asked, eyeing me in the mirror.
"No. Meter. Just go."
He shrugged and pulled into traffic. I twisted in my seat, peering through the auto's plastic rear window.
The Fortuner was still there. A grey ghost in the dusk.
"Faster," I said, my voice tight.
"This is not Fast & Furious, madam," the driver grumbled, but he sped up a little.
We hit the highway, the wind whipping through the open sides of the auto. I kept my eyes on the SUV. It maintained its distance, never getting closer, never falling back. A predator playing with its food.
This wasn't paranoia. This was a tail.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Rajesh.
Rajesh: At the cafe. Where are you?
My fingers fumbled as I typed back.
Me: Leaving Amit's flat. Got something big. USB drive. Financials. Also, I'm being followed. Silver Fortuner. Tinted windows.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Rajesh: Plate number?
Me: Can't see. Too far.
Rajesh: Don't go home. Don't go to your aunt's. Lose them. Change vehicles. Give me your live location. NOW.
I fumbled with my phone, sharing my location with him. The little blue dot pulsed on the map, a tiny beacon of panic moving along the highway.
Rajesh: Okay. I see you. Next exit, get off. There's a big petrol pump with a food court. Go inside. Crowds. I'm coming.
The calm, direct orders were the only thing holding my panic together.
"Bhaiya," I said to the driver, my voice surprisingly steady. "Next exit. Petrol pump."
He nodded.
The Fortuner followed us off the exit.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The petrol pump was a blaze of fluorescent light. I overpaid the driver, didn't wait for change, and almost fell out of the auto. I sprinted for the glass doors of the convenience store, losing myself in a crowd of truckers buying chips and soda.
I crouched behind a rack of motor oil, peering out the window.
The silver Fortuner pulled into the pump. It didn't fill up. It just parked. The driver's door didn't open.
They were waiting. For me to move.
My phone buzzed.
Rajesh: I'm 2 minutes out. Stay inside. Near the cashiers. Cameras there.
I texted back, my hands shaking.
Me: They're just sitting there. Watching.
Rajesh: Let them watch. They want to scare you. They don't want a scene in public. I'm pulling in.
A moment later, I saw it. A sleek, black Audi sedan, moving with predatory silence, slipped into the petrol pump. It didn't park near the pumps. It drove slowly, deliberately, and came to a stop right beside the silver Fortuner, driver's window to driver's window.
I couldn't see inside either car. Just two vehicles, tinted windows facing each other, in a silent standoff under the buzzing lights.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Then, the Fortuner's engine revved softly. It reversed, turned, and smoothly drove out of the petrol pump, merging back into traffic. It disappeared into the night.
The black Audi didn't move.
My phone rang. It was Rajesh.
"Get in the car," he said, his voice like ground glass. "Back passenger door. Now."
I ran out of the store, yanked open the door, and slid into the cool leather interior. Rajesh was in the driver's seat, his profile sharp in the dashboard lights. He wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the road where the Fortuner had vanished.
"Put on your seatbelt," he said, his voice quiet. He pulled out of the pump and drove, his movements precise.
I fumbled with the belt. The silence was thick. "What did you do? What did you say to them?"
"I didn't say anything," he replied, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "I just showed up. They know they've been made. That's enough for now."
He finally glanced at me, his gaze sweeping over me, checking for damage. "What did you find?"
I pulled the USB drive and the crumpled photo from my bag, handing them over like sacred relics.
He looked at the photo, at the inscription on the back. His jaw tightened. "Sunlight Foundation?"
"It's on the drive. It's a money laundry. Amit mapped it all."
Rajesh's grip tightened on the steering wheel. A slow, cold smile touched his lips. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a predator who's just found the scent.
"Good," he said, the word full of dark promise. "Now we have a map. And they know we have it."
He looked at me again, and for the first time, there was no annoyance, no impatience in his eyes. Just a fierce, grim respect.
"Mission accomplished, partner."