Threads Of Home

Chapter-17 The Gentle Trap

They decided to start small.

Prakash Malhotra liked the limelight — little charity galas, ribbon-cuttings, a photo with the right caption. He enjoyed being applauded for the kind of generosity that fit well in glossy magazines. If he was going to be coaxed into talking, they would give him something he loved: attention with the right whisper behind it.

Suresh had a contact at a downtown hotel that hosted weekend fundraisers. The gala that evening was intimate — business owners, a few politicians, mothers in elegant saris. It was exactly the sort of event where a guilty man felt safe.

“Stick to the plan,” Anika said as they gathered that afternoon. She spread printed excerpts from the evidence on the dining table, circling the pieces they could reveal without exposing themselves. “We don’t rush him. We let him reveal himself. Men like Prakash lean on sympathy. Give him that, then prod the memory.”

Aditya read the lines once, twice. He folded them neatly and slid them into his breast pocket. He had practiced being other people often in the past weeks — investor, son, concerned citizen — but tonight he wanted to be someone simple enough to disarm a man who trusted appearances.

Riya fussed with her saree in front of the mirror. Karan, who had stopped by to wish her luck for the evening, watched her with a grin that softened the edges of the tense household. He had insisted on coming along — not as muscle or distraction, but because he liked to be near her when things were hard.

“You’ll charm him,” Karan said, fingers brushing her ear as he leaned close. “And if he gets chatty, I’ll do my best to steal the dessert cart.”

Riya laughed, the sound bright and private. “You and your dessert plans. Promise me you won’t spill anything on Meera’s scarf.”

Karan saluted dramatically and kissed her forehead. The ease between them made Meera smile in a way she hadn’t in months.

At the hotel, the air smelled of roses and lemon. Chandeliers threw soft light across clusters of people. Suresh introduced them to the maître d’, who acted as if he was welcoming dignitaries while slipping a reassuring look at Anika — their ally in the room.

Prakash was easy to find. He stood near a pillar, hand on a flute glass, laughing at something a tall man in an expensive suit had said. He had the practiced composure of someone who’d forgotten how to be sincere. His smile was too bright.

Aditya watched him approach from a few steps away. He let Riya and Karan float into the crowd, their laughter and quiet flirting making them blend in as a couple enjoying the evening. Anika took a position closer to Suresh, phone ready, a tiny recorder tucked discreetly under her saree. Suresh, armed with charm and a careful script, would steer conversation in subtle directions.

“Prakash,” Suresh said as he stepped forward, arms open, the exact combination of warmth and familiarity to disarm. “I didn’t know you were chairing this event tonight. It’s a nice choice.”

Prakash smiled, the practiced tilt of head. “I like to give back. People need to see faces they can trust, don’t they?”

Suresh nodded and drew Prakash toward the table where Aditya waited, looking a little out of place and perfectly harmless in a plain kurta and blazer. “Aditya, this is Prakash Malhotra. He’s done remarkable work with the community projects.”

Prakash extended his hand with ease. “Always a pleasure. I hear you’re taking an interest in corporate philanthropy. That’s the new wave.”

Aditya smiled and accepted the handshake, keeping it brief, then gestured to the staff as a waiter passed with a tray of small canapés. He made a remark about how good it was to see old industry names supporting social causes, playing the curious son rather than the furious heir.

As words flowed, so did the opportune nudges. Suresh slipped into memory-lane talk, mentioning years and shared dinners. Prakash exhaled into nostalgia — the hookbait that often loosened a tongue. Anika adjusted a microphone on her bracelet, unseen.

Often, this part felt almost trivial: watch for the flicker beneath the laugh, the hesitation, the micro-reveal where guilt lifts its head.

Prakash laughed again, then lowered his voice. “You know, there were decisions we had to make back then. Hard choices. Sacrifices.” He looked at Suresh and then — curiously, pointedly — at Aditya.

Aditya tilted his head, playing mild interest. “Sacrifices for the company?”

Prakash’s smile thinned. “For growth. For keeping the company from collapsing. We did what we had to.”

Suresh bucked the conversation gently, steering away, but not before Prakash added, offhand, “There are times you have to choose who you save. That’s business.”

Anika’s hand tightened around the recorder. To anyone else, it was just a dangerous sentiment on a crowded stairway. To them, it was recognition — a pattern Rajiv’s files had hinted at: pressure, selection, rationalization.

The evening moved forward — small speeches, clinking glasses. Riya and Karan danced briefly to a familiar old song, their happiness like a warm patch of light on a grey day. Meera, back home, had not come — the family had decided it was better this way. This was their step into the public, and she needed to be shielded.

As the event wound down, people began to disperse. Prakash lingered near the exit, waiting for the perfect photo opportunity. It was then Aditya saw him fold a small envelope and, with a careful glance around, slide it into the hand of the woman in the expensive sari who had been speaking with him earlier. The woman — a soft-faced director from one of the partner NGOs — smiled and tucked the envelope away like a secret.

Aditya’s stomach tightened. He had not expected such a brazen move in public. Either Prakash was careless, or he felt untouchable.

He switched his gaze to Suresh, who met his eyes and gave a single, restrained nod. They had what they needed: the recorded remarks — the admission of “choosing who to save” — and now a possible link to the envelope exchange. It was small, but with proof and patience, small threads could unravel whole suits.

Outside, lanterns from street vendors bobbed in the night breeze. Riya and Karan walked past, hands entwined, laughing at nothing at all. Aditya felt something like gratitude — for the warmth of ordinary life, for the family moments that still shone in the dark. He stepped back into the crowd beside Anika, where they fell into step like two people who had decided to trust each other.

“Ready?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

They had one gentle trap set. Now they would wait to see which way the fluttering thread moved.