Page 65 of Born in Grief

“Of course you did.” She faced them, yanking her dupatta off and tossing it. “But now you also don’t have the media spin you were hoping for today.”

They looked around, clocking the sly grins and open chatter from the people around them. Dhrithi’s aghast parents fought their way to the front to confront her.

“Don’t bother,” she told her father before he could spew more vitriol at her. “Inspector Vikram!” she called out loudly.

Across the room, the other man turned at her voice. Eyebrows raised, he sauntered over to see what mayhem she planned to cause next.

“Once you’re done with this place, let me know if you’d like to check out Varun’s other properties.”

“We’ll be checking out the farm in Karjat and a team has already been dispatched to the Delhi home, Ma’am. We have international teams enroute to the homes in London and New York as well.” He smiled this time, seemingly enjoying her little performance. “But once again, thank you for your very enthusiastic cooperation.”

He was turning away from her when she asked, “And what about the flats in Andheri and Borivali?”

She heard her father-in-law’s sharp intake of breath, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees. Which was saying something since it was frosty from the beginning.

Vikram froze, turning back to her. “I beg your pardon,” he said, eyes narrowing.

Dhrithi widened her eyes artlessly. “You weren’t aware of those? Neither was I. Varun mentioned them in passing but I’m afraid I don’t have the keys or codes for those. Papa?” She turned towards her father-in-law. “Varun must have shared them with you. Could you give it to the Inspector? After all, we have nothing to hide, do we?”

They often said that when a bomb dropped, there was a moment of silence, a vacuum in which all sound ceased to exist in theworld. It was in that vacuum that Dhrithi chose to finally step away and walk out of that house, her heels grinding the debris of her past into dust as she did so.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

AMAY

We’ll talk.

Two innocuous words that opened a doorway into the past that he had always assumed was jammed shut. They played in his head constantly as he completed his rounds.

Virat had kept Ishaan and him updated with all the drama playing out at the Gokhale residence. Varun’s father had, predictably, denied all knowledge of the other apartments but it didn’t matter. The seed had been planted and Virat would now nurture it to full bloom with the cops, feeding them information that would lead them to where they needed to go.

Dhrithi’s stellar performance had ruined the media train the Gokhales had tried to set in motion. The internet was already buzzing and it was a matter of time before the mainstream media exploded with all the drama. There was going to be backlash. With this lot of people, there always was. The first wave of it would launch at Dhrithi and then the three of them when they figured out who was helping her. But this time, theywere ready. They weren’t the weak, scared, helpless boys they’d tangled with in the past. They had grown into more.

Dhrithi was fine. Virat had assured him of that. She was okay. She would be okay. And for now, that was all that mattered.

Which brought him back to ‘we’ll talk.’ He exhaled hard, the memory of that kiss flooding his brain and making it hard to concentrate on work. He stared at the surgical wound he was dressing and knew he had to do better. He pushed all thoughts of her aside and focused on the patient. There was time for all that later. Now, he needed to be the doctor he prided himself on being.

Amay was just finishing with a patient in emergency with a terrible dog bite when he heard the sirens wailing in the distance. Adrenalin flooded him as he strode out of the ward, his team falling in line behind him as they walked towards the stretchers being wheeled towards them.

“What do we have?”

“Murder suicide attempt.”

Amay’s eyebrows winged up at the response. “Attempt?”

“Neither died,” the junior briefing him replied, his voice sounding shocked and a bit awed. “What a mess.”

A mess, just about summed it up, Amay thought as he got to work on the murder victim. He was dimly aware of the police filing in and the chaos ensuing from it, but his focus stayed on the young woman whose throat had been slashed with what looked like a serrated knife. The junior doctor moved his gloved hand and blood gushed from a cut artery, pumping straight into Amay’s face.

“Keep your fucking hand in place,” he growled at the junior who whimpered and tightened his hold on the injury site again. They worked quickly to administer temporary first aid. The patient’s blood pressure and other vitals stayed steady giving Amay breathing room.

“Move to theatre now!” he called out, stepping back once it was a bit under control. He wiped the blood dripping into one eye with his forearm as he walked over to the other bed where the attacker/suicide attempt victim was being attended to by another doctor. Being a trauma surgeon was wild. You never knew what would come through the door.

“All under control?” he asked, glancing down at the unconscious man.

“Yes Sir. I’ve got this one. No worries.”

With a nod, Amay turned from the bed, walking quickly towards the staff elevator to get to the theatre floor. The woman, the actual victim, was his priority.

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