Kavitha Rao's apartment was on the third floor of a building in Aundh — a building with the pleasant, lived-in quality of one that housed working professionals. A sweet shop on the ground floor. A pharmacy next door. The sounds of several different televisions on several different floors.
Naina rang the bell for Flat 304. She waited. She rang again. She could hear movement inside — not the movement of someone who was out and had not heard the bell, but the specific stillness that followed movement, the stillness of someone who had heard the bell and was deciding.
She rang a third time. "Priti? My name is Naina Sharma. I called this afternoon. I'm the substitute at Kavitha's school. I'm not from the school administration — I'm just another teacher. I'd like to talk to you for ten minutes."
The sound of the latch. The door opened on a chain, showing a face: young, twenties, someone who had been crying recently enough that the evidence was still there. "How did you know where I live?" she said.
"School directory."
Priti looked at her. Then she unlatched the chain. "Ten minutes," she said.
The apartment was small and neat, two bedrooms, the shared living space of two people who had both put effort into it. Photographs on one shelf — Priti and family. On the other shelf, a different set: a woman who must have been Kavitha Rao. Naina looked at them. Kavitha was in her early thirties, with the contained posture of someone who spent a lot of time managing how they appeared to the world — not vain, not performative, but careful. She looked like a good teacher.
"When did you last see her?" Naina said.
Priti wrapped both hands around a cup of tea she was not drinking. "Three weeks ago," she said.
