Incredulous.
“Fuck you,” she says. “I should have told you? I should have told you? Fuck you. You abandoned me. After everything we did and said and went through. You abandoned me. I thought you loved me. I really thought it. I thought you didn’t need to say it because it was true. And what did you do? You left me there.”
A pause.
And then a flat, callous voice.
“I didn’t know.”
“Listen to yourself.” She returns to the kitchen, finds a rocks glass, sits at the table, and pours the vodka. “I’m tired, Sunny.”
And his voice reveals the smallest crack.
“I didn’t know.”
She closes her eyes.
So it’s true.
The shock in this moment is profound.
But it passes.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she says. “But when did you find out?”
The rain trickles down the window.
He doesn’t answer.
She lights another cigarette.
“She’s pretty, your wife.”
“Tell me one more thing,” he says calmly. “Did he make you do it?”
She’s been through this a million times.
“Did he force you?”
“You want to put this on someone,” she says, “I understand.”
“Did he make you? Was it him? Or was it you?”
She can hear him pulling a line.
“What does it matter?”
“My son is dead.”
“My son is dead too. We all have to pay somehow.”
“Was it him?” he says. “Did he make you do it?”
“Let’s play a game, Sunny. An answer for an answer. I’ll tell you what you want to know. All you have to do is tell me one thing too: was it worth it? Everything you’ve done, the life you have, all the people who loved you who you threw away, lurching from one thing to the next, always finding someone to blame. Showing your broken heart, showing what was done to you, then doing it back to them. In the balance of things, was it worth it?”
“Him or you?”
“You seem to think it hinges on this. Who made the choice, him or me? Him or me? Which one of us killed our son. Are you sad, Sunny? Are you lost? Will knowing close the wound? Well, here’s my answer, Sunny. Here’s the truth.” She looks up to see Alex watching her from the doorway, but it’s too late to stop. “Your father didn’t kill our son. I didn’t kill him either. You did, Sunny. It was you.”
* * *
—
In the emptiness of his room, Sunny stares into his phone.
Takes a moment. Composes himself.
Calls Dinesh Singh.
“Bro!” Dinesh answers cheerily. “Why you calling? It’s your wedding day!”
“Is it on?” Sunny says.
“Your wedding? You tell me, man.”
“Is it on?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dinesh says.
“Is. It. On?”
“Get the fuck off the phone.”
“The phone is safe.”
“No phone is safe, you fucking idiot.”
“Just do it,” Sunny says. “Just do it. I want him gone.”
“Bro,” Dinesh says. “Pray no one’s listening. Because it’s already done.”
AFTERNOON
1.
They are married.
Sunny and Farah Wadia.
They sit beside one another in the Gurdwara congregation hall, Farah resplendent in crimson lehenga, dripping with exquisite jewels, smiling demurely, her chin poised for the occasion, bow lips parted to reveal that perfectly imperfect smile and the single crooked tooth in that heart-shaped face. And Sunny, in his turban and sherwani, stonefaced behind Ray-Ban shades, looking like a Bollywood badass, or its waxwork at Madame Tussauds.
* * *
—
Back at the farmhouse estate, Tinu is perched on the edge of his daybed, smoking, waiting. Three phones laid out on the table ahead. Three phones, for three specific reasons.
One begins to ring.
He takes another drag of his cigarette and gets up.
* * *
—
The police van drives through South Delhi with Ajay in the back, dressed in that new safari suit, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. His eyes stare forward in a Mandrax haze, his wrist cuffed to his guard’s wrist.
* * *
—
The van pulls up at the Mehrauli Police Outpost, half a kilometer from the estate. Extra security has been posted in the neighborhood. The colony gates that lead to the farmhouse boast half a dozen private guards waiting to check IDs, open trunks, use telescopic inspection mirrors to examine the underbellies of the cars.