πΎππΌππππ - πππππ
659 Words
" THE INTERVIEW. THE SMELL, THE PROBLEM."
-I agreed to meet him for a formal interview.
Police work. Completely normal. I needed to ask him about his relationship with the dead man β money problems, shared enemies, anything useful.
That was the only reason.
I repeated this to myself three times in the car.
Twice in the elevator.
I stopped repeating things when I walked into the interview room and found him already there.
Jacket off. Sleeves folded up to his elbows. Reading something on his phone with the calm of a man who was used to waiting and knew the wait would be worth it.
He looked up when I walked in.
That look again. Immediate. Like a switch flipping. Like I had just walked into a room I did not know I belonged in β and he had known it before I arrived.
"Dr. Singhania." His voice was lower than yesterday.
"Mr. Malhotra." I sat across from him. Opened my file. Clicked my pen. All business. All armor. "Thank you for coming."
"You could have just called me."
"This is more effective."
"You mean you wanted to watch me in a room where I could not walk away easily."
I looked at him across the table. "I mean I wanted to conduct a professional interview."
"I am not going anywhere," he said. Simple. Like a fact. Like it meant something more than the sentence.
I looked back at my file.
We went through the questions. He answered everything clearly β no dodging, no fake confusion. He told me about the money fights between him and Rohan. Big fights. Hundreds of crores. He did not pretend it looked good.
"You are not protecting yourself," I said.
"You would find the truth anyway." He paused. "I would rather you find it from me."
"That is a trust-building strategy," I said. "Confess the small things so I believe you on the bigger things."
Something lit up in his eyes. Not offended. Interested. "Or," he said, "I am just telling you the truth."
"Why would you tell me the truth?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because you would know if I didn't."
The room went quiet.
My pen stopped moving.
"You read me at that crime scene in forty seconds," he said. "On a street. At night. Lying to you would beβ" He searched for the word. "Pointless."
I looked at him.
At his eyes.
At the way he was sitting β very still, very focused, like I was the only thing in the room worth focusing on.
"Mr. Malhotra," I said carefully. "You are being veryβ"
"Honest?" he said.
"Unguarded."
"Maybe," he said, leaning forward slightly, "this is the one room where I don't need a guard."
His arms were on the table. He was close enough now that I could smell him.
Cedar. Something warm underneath it. Something that was just β him.
My brain flagged it immediately in the very unhelpful way brains flag things they should not be flagging in police interview rooms.
I looked at my notes.
When I stood up to end the session, he stood too. The room was small. The distance between us was not professional.
I did not step back.
He did not step back.
"I'll be in touch," I said.
"I know," he said.
That smile.
That smile.
I walked out. I went straight to the bathroom. I stood in there for exactly four minutes doing breathing exercises like some kind of disaster recovery plan for my own heart.
Then I texted my best friend Meera: I am in trouble.
Her reply: Is he hot?
I stared at my own reflection.
Worse, I typed. He is interesting.
Her reply came back in three seconds: Oh no. Oh no no no. You're done, Zara. You are so done.
I put my phone in my pocket.
She was right.
But I was not ready to admit that yet.
- Writer
