[POV: Divya]
Aunt Meera's love was a physical thing. It lived in the air of the house, in the smell of tadka tempering in cumin and curry leaves, in the way every surface was just slightly worn soft from care. Tonight, it felt like a weighted blanket—comforting, but so heavy it was hard to breathe.
"Jaanu, come, sit. Uncle brought your favorite—malai kofta from that place in Hauz Khas." Aunt Meera fluttered around the dining table, which was set with the good linen napkins, the ones usually saved for Diwali. A peace offering. A celebration of me being "back."
I was back. My body was back. The rest of me was still in a warehouse, holding a pair of shears, staring at a Paris ticket offered by a murderer.
"Smells amazing, Auntie," I said, the lie automatic. My appetite was a ghost. I'd been running on protein bars and adrenaline for weeks.
Uncle Rohan smiled at me from the head of the table, his eyes crinkling with a concern he tried to mask. "Our star is home. We've missed your face at this table, Divya beta."
I slid into my chair, the one that had always been mine. It felt like sitting in a museum exhibit of my former life. Divya, Before.
We served ourselves. The silence was filled with the clink of serving spoons. It was the kind of silence that begged to be filled with chatter about classes, gossip, future plans. I had nothing to give them but more silence, wrapped in lies.
"So," Aunt Meera began, too brightly. "Priya called today. She said you two might get bubble tea this weekend? That's nice. Getting out with friends."
I poked at a kofta. "Yeah. Maybe."
"It's good," Uncle said, nodding with emphasis. "Very good. To be with people your age. Laughing. Your Auntie and I… we worry. You're so quiet now."
"I'm just tired, Uncle. Assignments."
"It's more than assignments," Aunt Meera said softly, putting her spoon down. "You don't sketch anymore. I haven't heard the sewing machine in weeks. Your studio corner… it's collecting dust, jaanu."
The observation was a tiny, precise dagger. My studio corner was my sacred space. The fact I'd abandoned it was a billboard declaring my inner state.
"I'm… between projects," I mumbled. "Conceptualizing."
"And this… this project on 'warehouse textures'?" Uncle asked, his tone carefully neutral. "You were out so late the other night. That area near Ghazipur… it's not safe for a girl alone, beta."
My blood went cold. They knew. Not the truth, but they knew I'd been somewhere. Had Rajesh's crashed Audi made some local news snippet? Did the warehouse have a security camera that recorded my license plate?
"It's for my final portfolio," I said, the lie forming smoother now, a practiced script. "It's on urban decay and renewal. I need the raw, authentic locations. The faculty thinks it's groundbreaking." I threw in the faculty approval to shut down the concern. Aunt Meera worshipped academic validation.
"Groundbreaking is good," she said, but her eyes didn't leave my face. They were scanning, like one of Rajesh's security sweeps. "But can't you go during the day? With a group? That boy from your class… Hitesh? He seems nice. Responsible."
The thought of dragging sweet, clueless Hitesh into a recon mission for a murder investigation almost made me laugh. It would have been a hysterical, unhinged sound.
"It's a solo project, Auntie. The light is specific. Sunset. It's about the… the dying of the light on industrial surfaces." I was digging myself deeper into a pit of artistic pretension, but it was working. Uncle Rohan looked vaguely impressed.
"Ah, very deep," he nodded. "Like a Satyajit Ray film but with… cement."
"Exactly."
Aunt Meera wasn't buying it. She reached over and covered my hand with hers. Her skin was warm, slightly rough from gardening. A real hand. A safe hand. "Divya. Look at me."
I forced myself to meet her gaze. Her eyes, the same sharp grey as mine but softened by decades of love, were swimming with tears she wouldn't shed. "I need to know you are okay. Not the 'I'm fine for your sake' okay. The real okay. The kind that sleeps through the night. The kind that doesn't jump at the sound of the doorbell."
I had jumped. Yesterday. When the courier came. I'd been standing behind the door with my shears.
"I'm getting there," I whispered, and it was the most honest thing I'd said all night. "It's just… slow. Some days are okay. Some days the air feels too thick to breathe. But I'm trying. I'm going to class. I'm eating." I gestured to the kofta I'd massacred but not eaten.
"And Rajesh?" The question dropped like a stone.
I froze. "What about him?"
"You're spending time with him," she stated. Not a question. "Priya said she saw you together at a cafe in Cyber Hub. Looking very… intense."
Damn Priya and her bubble-tea espionage.
"We have a group project," I said quickly. "A cross-disciplinary thing. Business and Design. It's… mandatory." The lies were stacking up, a fragile Jenga tower of deceit in the middle of our loving dining room.
"A project," Aunt Meera repeated, her voice flat. "With the boy who broke down your bedroom door."
"He was helping."
"He's hurting, Divya. Just like you are. Two broken pieces don't fix each other. Sometimes they just make a sharper, more dangerous edge."
Her perception was terrifying. She saw right through the "project" to the raw, desperate alliance beneath.
"We're not trying to fix each other," I said, my voice harder than I intended. "We're just… navigating the same mess. It's easier not to do it alone."
Uncle Rohan cleared his throat, the peacemaker. "Meera, she's an adult. If Rajesh is a support, even a difficult one, we should be grateful. The Malhotras may be… cold fish, but the boy was Amit's brother. He's grieving too."
This was the opening. The sympathy for Rajesh. I leaned into it. "He is. And he's handling it… by keeping busy. The project helps. It gives us both something to focus on that isn't just… the absence."
I saw them exchange a look. A silent, married-people conversation. Should we push? Should we let go?
Aunt Meera's shoulders sagged in surrender. For now. "Just… be careful, jaanu. With this project. With these… warehouses. With Rajesh. Grief makes people do unpredictable things."
You have no idea, I thought, the image of Rajesh ramming a steel door with his Audi flashing behind my eyes.
"I will be," I promised.
The rest of dinner was a minefield of well-meaning questions I deflected. Yes, my professors were happy with my progress. No, I wasn't seeing a therapist (the one they'd gently suggested; I'd cancelled the appointment). Yes, I'd call Priya about that bubble tea.
As I helped clear the plates, my phone buzzed in my back pocket. A text. I knew who it was without looking.
Aunt Meera saw me tense. "Everything okay?"
"Just a project update," I said, wiping my hands. "From my teammate. I should check it."
I escaped to the backyard, the cool night air a relief after the stifling warmth of concern. I leaned against the old neem tree and pulled out my phone.
Rajesh: Bait plan is a go. Need a convincingly vulnerable location for your "art project." Somewhere isolated but with clear sightlines. Somewhere you'd logically be at sunset. Think.
I stared at the screen. The trap. Our terrible, dangerous plan to lure the grey ghost. I needed to give him a place. A place that would make sense to my aunt, to a killer, and give Rajesh a chance to not get me killed.
I looked back at the house. Through the window, I could see Aunt Meera leaning against the kitchen sink, her head bowed. The posture of profound worry. Of love that felt like a cage.
I typed back, my fingers cold.
Me: The old Rajpath Boathouse. On the lake. It's been condemned for years. Perfect "decaying textures." Isolated. Huge windows. I can tell Aunt Meera I'm going for "water-reflected sunset light on rotting wood." She'll hate it, but she'll believe it.
Rajesh: Boathouse. Good. Public enough to approach, private enough for an ambush. I'll do a reconnaissance tomorrow. We'll plan the setup the day after. Are you ready?
Was I ready? To use myself as a lightning rod for a killer? No.
But I was out of other options. And the love in that house, as beautiful as it was, was starting to feel like the velvet lining of a coffin. A safe place to lie down and let the grief win.
I needed the danger. I needed the mission. I needed the sharp, chaotic boy who didn't smother me with care, but handed me a weapon and told me to survive.
Me: I'mready. Just make sure you're watching.
Rajesh: I'm always watching.
I put my phone away. I stood in the dark for a long time, listening to the quiet sounds of my aunt and uncle cleaning up, building a clean, safe world for me to return to.
A world I was about to walk out of, straight into the jaws of a trap I was helping to build.