"Once. A text, ten days ago. It just said: Still okay. Don't come looking. Trust me. From a number I didn't recognise. I tried calling it back — no answer."
"You didn't go to the police."
"She asked me not to. And she sounded like herself. The way she wrote it sounded like her." She paused. "But three weeks is a very long time to not know where your roommate is."
"Yes," Naina agreed. "It is." She was quiet for a moment. "The note says something is wrong at the school. Not just a professional disagreement. She was afraid that talking about it would cause a specific problem. She said 'making it worse.'"
"Yes. That's what I thought too."
"Has anyone from the school been here? To check on her?"
Priti's expression did something. Not quite surprise — more like a confirmation. "Mr. Iyer came. The administrative officer. The day after she left. He asked if she was here, I said no, he asked if I had heard from her, I said no. He seemed — satisfied. Like that was the answer he wanted." She paused. "He didn't ask if I was worried about her. He didn't say he was worried. He just confirmed she wasn't here. And left."
"He didn't ask you to contact the school if she got in touch."
"No."
Naina absorbed this. A teacher goes missing. The administrative officer comes to confirm she's not at home, asks no follow-up questions, expresses no concern, and leaves satisfied. Meanwhile, her attendance is being marked as present on leave without a formal leave application.
"Priti," she said carefully. "Did Kavitha ever mention the students? Class 9-B specifically?"
Priti looked at her with a new alertness. "Yes. She talked about them all the time. She loved that class. She said they were the best group she'd had in five years of teaching." She paused. "In the week before she left, she came home late one evening and said: 'Priti, those kids are going to be okay. They're good kids. They're scared, but they're good kids.' And then she wouldn't say more." She looked at Naina. "What does that mean?"
