"I held her hands. During the conversation. I held her hands across the table."
"With enough force to leave bruises?"
"I was upset. I may have gripped harder than I realised."
"Or someone else gripped her. Someone whose interaction with Meera you're not describing."
Rohit looked at her. The controlled surface didn't crack, but something shifted behind it — the recalculation of a man who'd prepared for certain questions and was now facing ones he hadn't.
"I've told you what I know, Sub-Inspector."
"You've told me a version, Mr. Kaul. A version that's carefully structured, emotionally compelling, and conveniently incomplete. You've given me a confession that technically confesses nothing — 'I killed her by being a bad husband' is not a legal admission. It's a TED talk."
For the first time, something genuine broke through Rohit's surface. Not anger — surprise. The surprise of a man who's been managing rooms his whole life and has just met someone who doesn't stay managed.
"I want to hear Kavya Iyer's statement," Priya said. "And Kabir Menon's. And then I want to hear your version again — the one without the performance."
Rohit stood. "Am I free to go?"
"For now."
He left. Priya sat in the interview room, looking at her notes, and drew three circles on a fresh page. In one, she wrote ROHIT. In another, KABIR. In the third, KAVYA. She drew lines between them — connecting each circle to the other two.
A triangle. The oldest geometric shape in the history of human betrayal.
Somewhere in this triangle, a woman had died. And the three points of the triangle had each confessed to the killing — which was either the most cooperative murder investigation in Goan history, or the most elaborate deception.
She turned the page. At the top, she wrote:
WHAT IS KAVYA'S SECRET?
Then she picked up her phone and called the front desk. "Send in Kabir Menon."
