Priya built the trap over forty-eight hours, sleeping in two-hour intervals on her office floor, fuelled by the particular clarity that arrives when fear and determination reach an equilibrium.
The logic was simple. Ajay had two remaining cases to recreate before his endgame. Case 6 — the journalist's staged suicide — and Case 7 — the disappearance. If Priya could predict the location and timing of Case 6, she could be waiting for him.
Case 6 was the Tiwari case. The journalist found hanging in his office. The location had been Tiwari's actual office in Fort — a small room on the third floor of a crumbling colonial building that now housed a shipping company. The copycat would need a similar location — a small, enclosed space that could be staged to look like an office, accessible but not heavily surveilled.
But there was an additional dimension. Ajay knew that Priya had discovered the Tiwari-Deshmukh connection from his laptop. He knew she had information that could bring down her own superior. He was counting on this — the chaos, the distraction, the internal politics that would consume her attention while he executed Case 7.
Priya decided to give him exactly what he expected. She leaked the Tiwari information.
Not to Deshmukh. Not to the press. To the CBI — the Central Bureau of Investigation, which had jurisdiction over police corruption cases. She sent Ashwin's original forensic notes, Tiwari's emails, and a summary of the evidence linking Deshmukh to the cover-up. She sent it anonymously, through a lawyer she trusted, with instructions to open a preliminary inquiry.
The CBI moved fast. Within thirty-six hours, ACP Deshmukh was summoned for questioning. The news leaked, as news always does. The Crime Branch was thrown into turmoil — officers choosing sides, lawyers making phone calls, the media circling like sharks who'd smelled blood in institutional waters.
In the chaos, Priya slipped away.
She'd identified three possible locations for the Case 6 recreation — all in South Mumbai, all matching the profile of Tiwari's office. She placed plainclothes officers at two of them. The third — a vacant office above a printing press in Kala Ghoda — she took herself, with Rajan.
"This is the one," she told him, standing in the empty room on a Wednesday evening. The space was dusty, with a single window, a wooden beam across the ceiling strong enough to support weight, and a back staircase that led to a service alley. It was perfect. It was exactly what she would have chosen if she were staging a hanging.
"You're sure?" Rajan said.
"The printing press closed six weeks ago. The landlord is trying to sell the building. It's been empty, but the electricity is still connected — I checked with BEST. Someone's been using power here. Small amounts, but consistent. Like someone's been visiting regularly."
