Page 122 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

Are you up?

Then another text. I know you’re up thinking about my life with Rajvi, aren’t you?

Aargh, he was so annoying! I grabbed the phone and keyed in angrily, In your dreams.

Ah ha, I knew you were up and reading my texts.

I sent back an angry emoji.

His reply came quickly. To set the record straight, only you can keep me happy. For starters, no one can fuck me like you do.

For heaven’s sake, YOU BROKE UP WITH ME. And my parents have access to this phone. It’s their phone I’m borrowing.

Alright, goodnight. I’ll be dreaming of my new life with Rajvi.

I’ll be dreaming of ways to kill you and not get caught, I texted and deleted the messages from the phone before going back to my reading.

Around four in the morning, when my tired eyes would no longer stay open, I sent a text to Mihir. You don’t get to dump me and have my mother find you a wife. Go ask someone else.

I woke up around 9 a.m., extremely nervous. I saw a text from Mihir, but deflecting his shenanigans wasn’t the most pressing thing on my mind that morning.

After a quick shower and an equally quick breakfast, I returned to my room, composed my thoughts, and called the organization’s office.

“Sharda Tai is not here yet,” a woman speaking Marathi-accented Hindi informed me. “Who’s calling?”

“I’m a friend of a friend. I need her help,” I said in Marathi. “Can you ask her to call me back?”

“Yes,” she said and asked for my number, but I wasn’t holding out hope for a callback. I decided to wait an hour, then call again.

About twenty minutes later, as I sat nursing a coffee, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

“This is Sharda,” a commanding voice said in Hindi. “You called for me?”

I stilled momentarily, but quickly slipped into Appa’s study. “Yes, my name is Sona Thomas. I teach at a university in the U.S. I wondered if I could have a word with you.”

“Is this about research? If you have the proper paperwork from your university authenticating your research, our organization will be happy to help.”

“No. It’s…personal,” I said.

“Personal?” The change in her voice gave me the impression that she just sat up straighter in her chair. “Is someone you know in trouble? We deal with a lot of trafficked women and girls.”

“No, oh, I’m sorry. It’s not related to the organization. It’s personal as in you. I wanted to ask if you knew a Dr. Arvind Seth about thirty-five years ago.”

There was a long beat of silence. “How do you know him?” she asked without a change in her authoritative tone.

“I’m a friend of his son, Mihir.”

“Mihir…” It sounded like the whisper from a breeze. “What do you want?”

“Mihir just learned the truth and has come to India looking for you.”

Another long pause. “What did you say your name was?”

“Sona. Sona Thomas.”

“Sona, is he with you now?”

“No, he doesn’t know I found you.”

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