Chapter:6 Collateral Truth
Present Day:
Shabad sat alone in his dimly lit room, the book trembling slightly in his hands. The words on the page blurred for a moment, his vision clouded by the tears he didn’t realize had formed. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus.
As he read through the chapters of Amir’s life—his struggles, his sacrifices, and the relentless weight of his dual identity—Shabad felt a knot tighten in his chest. Each page felt like a confession, raw and unfiltered, peeling back layers of the man he thought he knew.
Shabad placed the book down for a moment, his hands covering his face. He felt a surge of emotions—shame for his earlier accusations, sorrow for his father’s unspoken pain, and guilt for never asking the questions that mattered.
Shabad descended the stairs slowly, the weight of his emotions making each step feel heavier than the last. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every creak of the floorboards and the beating of one’s own heart.
As he reached the living room, he saw Amir standing by the window, his figure bathed in the pale glow of the streetlights outside. His father’s hands were clasped behind his back, and his posture, though upright, carried an air of melancholy. It was as if Amir was lost in a world far beyond the walls of their home, a place Shabad had only begun to glimpse through the pages of the book.
Shabad hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to begin. The words he wanted to express seemed too big for his chest, too tangled in his throat. But then, something within him pushed forward—an instinct, perhaps, born of the newfound understanding he carried.
Quietly, he approached Amir, his steps careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace of the moment. When he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around his father from behind, pulling him into an embrace.
Amir stiffened at first, startled by the unexpected gesture, but then he relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he placed a hand over Shabad’s. “What’s this, Shabad?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with surprise and something deeper—hope.
Shabad buried his face against his father’s shoulder, his words muffled but charged with emotion. “I’m sorry, Dad. For everything I said. For everything I didn’t understand.”
Amir turned slightly, enough to look over his shoulder and catch the glimmer of tears in Shabad’s eyes. “You’ve been reading, haven’t you?” he said gently, a faint, bittersweet smile on his lips.
Shabad nodded, unable to trust his voice. He held on tighter, as if afraid that letting go would unravel the moment.
Amir sighed, his gaze fixed on the window, as if the answers to unspoken questions were somewhere beyond the glass. His hand rested lightly on Shabad’s, but his words carried a cold precision that sent a shiver down Shabad’s spine.
“You’re too emotional, Shabad,” Amir said, his voice low but firm. “One moment, you hate me; the next, you want to wrap me in your arms. You don’t see the danger in that, do you?”
Shabad blinked, taken aback by the sharpness of his father’s tone. “What do you mean, danger? I don’t understand.”
Amir turned, his face now fully illuminated by the dim light in the room. For the first time, Shabad noticed the shadow in his father’s eyes—an unreadable, almost impenetrable expression. “Sympathy makes you weak, son,” Amir said, his voice tightening. “And weakness… weakness is a weapon the world will use against you.”
Shabad stepped back, confusion flickering across his face. “Why are you saying this, Dad? I came here to—”
“To do what?” Amir cut him off, his tone icy. “To cry over things you don’t even understand? You read a few pages of my story and think you know me? You think you can stand in judgment or offer me… what? Forgiveness?”
The words stung, and Shabad’s heart twisted with a mixture of hurt and doubt. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I didn’t know, Dad. About your past. About what you’ve been through.”
Amir’s lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t warm. It was the kind of smile that hinted at secrets best left untold. “And now you do?” he asked, stepping closer. His presence felt heavier now, the air in the room almost stifling. “Tell me, Shabad. Did the diary make you feel pity for me? Or did it make you wonder who I really am?”
Shabad swallowed hard. “Why are you saying this? Of course I feel for you. Everything you went through… it was unfair.”
“Unfair?” Amir repeated, laughing softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Life isn’t fair, Shabad. You should know that by now. But here’s a question for you—do you believe everything you read? Do you think the story in that diary is the whole truth?”
Shabad froze, his mind racing. “What do you mean? Are you saying it isn’t?”
Amir leaned in slightly, his gaze piercing. “What I’m saying is this: every story has two sides. And sometimes… sometimes the storyteller leaves out the parts they don’t want you to see.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Shabad’s hands clenched into fists, his breathing uneven. “You’re scaring me, Dad,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Amir stepped back, his smile fading into something almost regretful. “Good,” he said simply. “Fear keeps you alert. It keeps you questioning. And if there’s one thing I want you to learn from all of this, it’s to never take anything at face value. Not even me.”
Shabad’s chest tightened as he tried to process his father’s words. “But… I want to believe you.”
Amir turned back to the window, his face once again in shadow. “Then read the diary, son. Read it all. And when you do, ask yourself this—was I the victim, or was I something else entirely?”
Shabad stood there, rooted to the spot, his mind spinning with doubt and confusion. He had come to his father for clarity, for closure. Instead, he left with questions, each one heavier than the last.
As he climbed the stairs to return to the diary, his heart was a battlefield—one half yearning to trust Amir, the other dreading what the truth might reveal
At Campus
Shaqib was leaning casually against a table in the bustling canteen, surrounded by laughter and the clatter of tea cups. His friends were animated, teasing each other over a lost cricket match, but his sharp eyes caught something unusual—a police van entering the campus gates, its siren silent but its presence loud.
The van rolled to a stop right outside the canteen. Conversations slowed to murmurs as students exchanged uneasy glances. Shaqib straightened up, his easy grin faltering as the van’s door swung open with a deliberate creak.
Inspector Rathod stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel. His presence commanded immediate attention, his tall frame exuding an aura of authority. Adjusting his aviators, he strode towards the canteen like he owned the place, his gaze fixed squarely on Shaqib.
“Hello, Mr. Shaqib Hussain,” Rathod said smoothly, removing his sunglasses with a practiced flourish. His lips curled into a smirk. “Looking fit and fine, I see.”
Shaqib smiled back, his confidence barely shaken. “Thank you, Sir. And you… how did you manage to lose your way all the way to JU Campus? We don’t see the law visiting often unless they’re lost.”
Rathod chuckled, a low, deliberate sound. “Oh, I wasn’t lost. Let’s just say some interesting people invited me here, and I couldn’t refuse. The food, maybe? Or perhaps the company.” His tone was sharp, the kind that cut through Shaqib’s veneer of calm.
Shaqib raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying the hospitality. We respect the law here more than most. So, what brings you, Inspector?”
Rathod took a deliberate step closer, his gaze unrelenting. “A murder, Shaqib,” he said, his voice lowering just enough to draw the attention of those around them. “A gruesome one. Hostel grounds, just a few days back. You must’ve heard about it. After all, you seem to know everything that goes on in this campus.”
Shaqib’s smile didn’t waver, though his hands tensed at his sides. “Of course, sir. It’s a tragedy. We’ve all been talking about it.”
Rathod leaned in slightly, his smirk widening. “You’re very active on this campus, aren’t you, Shaqib? Wandering more than studying. A little too… involved in the lives of others. Call it a hunch, but I like to keep an eye on people who stand out. Makes my job easier.”
Shaqib laughed lightly, a calculated move to mask the flicker of unease in his eyes. “Why not, sir? We’re always happy to help the police. But you’ll find I’m just a humble student. Nothing more.”
Rathod’s smile faded, replaced by a piercing gaze that lingered a moment too long. “Humble, you say? Let’s see about that. Let’s go brother.:
Shaqib: (alarmed, looking around for support from his friends) “Go? Where? For what?”
Rathod: (grabbing Shaqib by the arm) “To help the police, of course. You’re going to tell me everything you know about this campus and that poor boy’s death.”
Shaqib: (pulling back, his voice rising) “This is harassment! You have no proof—no right to take me in!”
Rathod: (his patience wearing thin, his grip tightening) “Proof will come, Shaqib. It always does. But until then, I’m making sure you don’t wander too far. Trust me, you won’t like what happens if you resist.”
The students whispered nervously amongst themselves as Rathod escorted Shaqib toward the van, the latter’s bravado cracking under the weight of suspicion. As they disappeared, the tension in the canteen lingered
Professor’s Office
Amir and Ramnath were seated in the small office, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. The air was tense, their earlier discussion punctuated by the occasional sound of a ticking clock on the wall. Ramnath leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, while Amir stared blankly at a document, his thoughts far away.
Suddenly, the door burst open. A student barged in, out of breath, his face pale with urgency.
Student: (panting) “Sir! Inspector Rathod… he’s just taken Shaqib away!”
Amir snapped out of his thoughts, his sharp gaze locking onto the student. Ramnath shot up from his chair, his face a mixture of alarm and disbelief.
Amir: (his voice calm, but cold) “What do you mean ‘taken away’? What’s happened?”
Student: (still catching his breath) “The police van… it came straight to the canteen. They questioned Shaqib about the hostel murder and then took him with them. Everyone’s talking about it!”
Amir’s jaw tightened as he exchanged a quick glance with Ramnath, who was already grabbing his phone.
Ramnath: (gritting his teeth) “This isn’t good. If Rathod digs too deep, he might find connections we can’t afford to explain.”
Amir: (rising from his chair, his tone sharp) “Stay calm. We don’t know what he’s after yet. Call our contact in the precinct—find out where they’re taking him.”
Ramnath nodded, stepping into the corner of the room to make the call. Amir turned back to the student, his expression unreadable.
Amir: (firmly) “You—did anyone else see or hear anything unusual?”
Student: (shaking his head) “No, sir. Just whispers… but people are saying the Inspector seemed very sure of something.”
Amir dismissed the student with a wave, his mind already working through possibilities. As the door closed, he leaned against the desk, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood.
Amir: (to himself, almost a whisper) “Rathod never makes a move unless he’s certain. This is deliberate.”
Ramnath ended his call, his face grave as he turned back to Amir.
Ramnath: “They’re taking him to the main station. Rathod’s not wasting time.”
Amir: (picking up his coat, his movements calculated) “Then neither should we. Let’s move.”
Cut to: Police Station
Shaqib sat in the interrogation room, his usual composure faltering under Rathod’s relentless gaze. The Inspector leaned against the table, his demeanor casual but predatory.
Rathod: (mockingly) “You’re sweating, Shaqib. Nervous about something?”
Shaqib: (forcing a smirk) “It’s hot in here. You should invest in better ventilation.”
Rathod: (leaning in, his voice dropping) “The truth can be suffocating, Shaqib. And you’re swimming in lies. Don’t make this harder on yourself.”
Shaqib’s façade cracked for a brief moment as Rathod slid a folder across the table. The contents inside were incriminating—photos, reports, and a map marking suspicious activity tied to Shaqib’s known hangouts.
Outside the station, Amir and Ramnath arrived, their faces set in stone. They exchanged a quick nod before stepping inside, ready to play the dangerous game of damage control.
Amir: (to Ramnath, as they entered) “If Rathod’s holding more cards than we think, this could end badly. We need to steer this conversation before it spirals.”
Ramnath: (grimly) “Let’s hope Shaqib hasn’t said anything stupid.”
Amir: (approaching the desk, voice firm) “I want to meet Shaqib.”
Inspector Patel, a stout man with a thick mustache, was leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against a file. He glanced up, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.
Patel: (casually) “Shaqib? Are you here to bail him out?”
Amir: (leaning slightly on the desk, his tone sharpening) “That’s an unlawful arrest. You had no grounds to take him in.”
Patel smirked, setting his pen down deliberately and leaning forward, resting his arms on the desk.
Patel: (mocking) “Oh, so you’re his advocate now? Is that it?”
Amir: (coldly) “No. Professor.”
Patel tilted his head, studying Amir for a moment, a sly grin spreading across his face.
Patel: (chuckling) “Professor? Well, that makes sense. You’ve got that... righteous air about you. But let me tell you something, Professor—this is a police matter. Not a classroom debate.”
Amir’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground, his gaze unflinching.
Amir: “You’re overstepping, Inspector. If you think this arrest will hold, you’re mistaken. I’ll bring this up with your superiors if I have to.”
Patel leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head, clearly enjoying the tension.
Patel: (grinning) “Superiors, huh? Big words for a professor. Let me make this easy for you—bring an advocate, and then we’ll talk. Until then, you’re wasting your time.”
Amir exchanged a glance with Ramnath, who stepped closer, his frustration evident.
Ramnath: (interrupting) “This is ridiculous! Shaqib hasn’t done anything. You don’t even have evidence, do you?”
Patel’s grin faded slightly, and his tone turned sharper.
Patel: “Oh, there’s evidence. Enough to keep him in custody for now. And you two? You should know better than to meddle in police work.”
Amir’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen before answering. The screen displayed "Advocate Shukla."
Amir: (answering calmly) “Advocate Shukla.”
Advocate Shukla: (on the other end, steady voice) “Amir, we don’t have much choice here. The arrest is for a non-bailable offense. Bail isn’t an option right now. We’ll have to wait a few hours for the formalities to play out.”
Amir: (narrowing his eyes, speaking softly) “Non-bailable? Are you sure?”
Advocate Shukla: “I’ve checked. The police have already classified it as such. It’s a tricky case, but we’ll handle it. Just stay patient. I’ll get to work on the next steps, but for now, you’ll have to wait.”
Amir: (gripping his phone tighter) “Alright. Keep me updated.”
He hung up and let out a slow breath, lowering his phone.
Ramnath: (coming closer, his face tense) “What did he say?”
Amir: (quietly) “Non-bailable. We wait for a few hours. That’s all we can do now.”
Ramnath cursed under his breath and leaned against the car beside Amir. The silence between them stretched as the night deepened.
Rathod sat across from Shaqib, his gaze unwavering. The room was silent except for the faint hum of a fan in the background.
Rathod: (leaning back in his chair, a cold smile on his face) “Have a good lunch, Shaqib. Make this a habit now. We’ll continue after sometime.”
Shaqib sat there, his mind racing, the faint rumble of voices from outside barely reaching him. The door creaked open, and Rathod stood, leaving without another word.
Shaqib sat slumped in the chair, handcuffed to the table, his head bowed. A plate of dal chawal was placed in front of him, the steam rising faintly from the food. His stomach growled, but his mind was in turmoil.
Shaqib hesitated, his fingers trembling as he picked up the spoon. Slowly, he began eating. The rice was bland, the dal watery, but his hunger was stronger than his apprehension.
As he swallowed the last spoonful, a strange sensation began to spread through his body. A wave of nausea hit him hard, his stomach churning violently.
Shaqib: (clutching his stomach) “What’s happening?”
He pushed the plate away, his hands shaking as he leaned forward, trying to control the convulsions building inside him.
The foam began to form at the corners of his mouth. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as he struggled to hold down the rising bile.
Rathod, Patel, and several other officers burst into the room, their voices echoing with urgency.
Rathod: (shouting) “What’s wrong with him?!”
They rushed to Shaqib, but by the time they reached him, he had collapsed onto the floor, writhing in agony. Foam continued to pour from his mouth as he thrashed.
Patel: (panicked) “Get him some water! Medic! Now!”
They dragged him onto his side, trying to administer aid, but it was too late. Shaqib’s body went still, convulsions fading into death.
Rathod stood there, his eyes wide with shock. Patel knelt beside him, his hands trembling as he touched Shaqib’s lifeless body.
Patel: (voice cracking) “He’s... he’s gone.”
Rathod: (gritting his teeth) “How? How does this happen? No......”
Amir stood motionless, the echoes of Shaqib’s death reverberating in his mind. Ramnath, trembling beside him, eyes wide with shock, dared to speak, his voice quivering with fear.
Ramnath: (stammering) “No... Amir, did you just...?”
Amir slowly turned to Ramnath, his expression unreadable, but there was something disturbingly cold in his gaze.
Amir: (calmly, with a twisted grin) “I took care of it. He had to be dealt with.”
Ramnath: (his voice breaking) “You... you killed him?”
Amir: (his tone hard, almost detached) “Killed? No, Ramnath. I didn’t kill him. I erased him.”
Ramnath’s legs gave way, his knees buckling as he sank to the ground, unable to believe what he was hearing.
Ramnath: (voice trembling) “Why? Why would you—”
Amir: (interrupting, his voice cold, calculating) “Because I can’t have loose ends. He was weak. A fool who couldn’t see his place. A threat to everything we’ve worked for.”
Ramnath: (pleading, his voice breaking) “But... we were supposed to protect him! You promised—”
Amir: (with a cruel smile, cutting him off) “Protect him? No. We protect ourselves. He was a liability. A loose thread that could unravel everything. Do you understand? He was weak, and weak people are dangerous.”
Ramnath: (his hands shaking) “But... this isn’t what we—”
Amir: (coldly) “What we do is what I decide, Ramnath. I decide who lives, who dies. And he had no place here. No future in my vision.”
Ramnath stared at Amir, his mind crashing under the weight of betrayal and horror.
Ramnath: (desperately) “You’re a monster.”
They stood outside police station, the air thick with the stench of death and despair, as the truth of Shaqib’s fate sank in—Amir had sealed it.
The campus buzzed with anger and disbelief. Students gathered in throngs, their voices rising in chants that echoed across the halls. Placards demanding justice for Shaqib waved in the air, slogans like “Justice for Shaqib!” and “No More Custodial Deaths!” dominating the scene. A makeshift stage was set up near the main quadrangle, where student leaders took turns addressing the crowd.
Student Leader: (shouting into a megaphone) “Shaqib Hussain was one of us! A friend, a student, a voice! And now he’s gone—killed in police custody under mysterious circumstances! We demand answers!”
The crowd roared in agreement, their collective rage palpable. The police van stationed outside the campus gates stood as a silent witness to the unrest, its occupants wary of stepping out.
Another Student: (raising her fist) “Rathod and Patel are murderers! They must be held accountable!”
Amidst the chaos, Amir and Ramnath watched from a distance. Amir’s face was impassive, his hands folded as he observed the protest with an unnerving calm. Ramnath, on the other hand, fidgeted nervously, stealing glances at Amir, who seemed to relish the turmoil unfolding before them.
At Police Station
Inside the station, Rathod and Patel faced a grilling from their superiors. The room was tense, the air thick with the weight of accusations.
Senior Official: (slamming a file on the table) “Custodial death? Do you two realize what kind of storm this has unleashed? There are protests across the city, media coverage, and now FIRs filed against both of you!”
Rathod: (defensive) “Sir, we didn’t kill him! He was poisoned. Someone from outside must have—”
Senior Official: (cutting him off) “And yet, he died in your custody! The public doesn’t care about the nuances, Rathod. They see this as police brutality!”
Patel: (panicking) “Sir, we followed protocol. We didn’t—”
Senior Official: (sharply) “Protocol? Then why are we drowning in lawsuits? The magistrate has already initiated a judicial inquiry, and both of you have been named directly. Effective immediately, you’re suspended. Pack your things.”
Rathod clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as Patel sank into his chair, the gravity of the situation overwhelming him.
Back at the campus, the protest grew larger, spilling out onto the streets. Media vans surrounded the area, reporters interviewing students who held nothing back.
Reporter: (holding a microphone) “Why do you think this protest has gained so much momentum?”
Student: (tears in her eyes) “Because this could have been any of us! We need to stop this culture of custodial deaths. Shaqib deserves justice!”
As night fell, candles were lit, turning the protest into a vigil. Shaqib’s smiling face stared back at the crowd from posters and banners, a grim reminder of what had been lost.
Amir sat in his dimly lit room, watching the news coverage on his phone. Clips of Rathod and Patel’s suspension were replayed over and over, accompanied by images of the campus protests.
News Anchor: “In a major development, Inspector Rathod and Sub-Inspector Patel have been terminated from their duties, pending further investigation into the custodial death of Shaqib Hussain. Sources reveal charges of negligence and misconduct have been filed against them.”
Amir smirked, sipping his tea, the chaos outside a testament to his calculated moves.
Ramnath: (bursting into the room, frantic) “Amir, it’s getting out of hand! The protests, the suspensions—what have we done?”
Amir: (coolly) “What needed to be done. Look around, Ramnath. The system is eating its own. Rathod and Patel are out, the students are fighting, and we’re untouched.”
Ramnath: (his voice rising) “But Shaqib’s blood is on your hands!”
Amir: (leaning forward, his voice cold and deliberate) “And now it’s on theirs, too. Don’t you see, Ramnath? I didn’t just kill Shaqib—I destroyed Rathod and Patel with him. One stone, two birds. The world believes they’re guilty. That’s all that matters.”
Ramnath stared at Amir, horror creeping into his features as the realization sank in. Amir leaned back, his smirk returning as the sounds of protest filtered through the window.
Amir: (softly, almost to himself) “Justice, Ramnath... it’s just a matter of perspective.”
The sound of glass shattering echoed through the room as Shabad burst in, his face flushed with anger and disbelief. Amir, still seated in his chair, barely flinched, his smirk frozen in place. Ramnath froze, caught between the storm brewing in Shabad’s eyes and Amir’s chilling calm.
Shabad: (voice trembling with fury) “You’re evil, Amir! I stood by you, defended you, after reading your diary... I thought you were a man shaped by pain, by injustice. But I was wrong! Your diary is a fraud. You are a fraud!”
Amir set his tea down slowly, leaning forward, his expression darkening. He stared at Shabad, his eyes glinting with cold amusement.
Amir: (calmly) “Fraud? Such a big word for such a small mind. Tell me, Shabad—what will you do about it? Expose me?”
Shabad: (seething) “Yes! I’ll tell everyone. I’ll show them who you truly are.”
Amir: (chuckling softly) “Okay. And how will you do that, hmm? Evidence? Proof? It doesn’t exist. You’ve got nothing, Shabad. Just like the rest of them.”
Shabad: (yelling) “I hate you! You’re a monster!”
Amir’s laughter filled the room, low and menacing, echoing like a predator toying with its prey. He stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, towering over Shabad.
Amir: (mockingly) “Hate me? Oh, Shabad, we’ve been here before. Your emotions, your weakness. I told you once—being emotional is a liability. And look at you now. Angry. Helpless. Weak.”
Shabad clenched his fists, his body trembling with barely contained rage. Amir leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
Amir: “You can scream. Cry. Hate me all you want. It changes nothing. Because at the end of the day, I win. Always.”
Shabad: (desperate) “I will find a way to stop you!”
Amir: (with a cruel grin) “Good luck, Shabad. But remember—when you fail, it’s because you’re exactly what I said you are: weak. Very, very weak.”
Shabad stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Amir turned back to Ramnath, who stood frozen, too afraid to speak. Amir smirked, picking up his tea and taking a slow sip.
Amir: (to Ramnath, amused) “See? People are so predictable. Emotional fools, all of them. And yet, they think they can take me down.”
Ramnath looked away, his heart pounding, realizing just how dangerous Amir truly was.
Shabad stormed into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. His breathing was ragged, his mind consumed with the rage and disgust he felt for Amir. On his desk lay the diary—a symbol of deceit and manipulation. He picked it up, his hands trembling, ready to rip it apart.
Shabad: (muttering to himself) “This ends now. You won’t control anyone else with your lies, Amir.”
As he raised the diary to tear it, a photograph slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Its glossy surface caught the dim light, drawing Shabad’s attention. He froze, his anger momentarily replaced by curiosity. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up.
The image was haunting: a young woman in a hijab holding a baby, her eyes wide with terror. An AK-47 was pressed against her head, wielded by a masked man. The scene was tense, suffocating. Shabad’s gaze drifted to the child in her arms—a baby boy with familiar features.
Shabad’s grip on the photo tightened as realization hit him like a freight train.
Shabad: (whispering, his voice trembling) “Mom...?”
He turned the photo over, his fingers shaking. Scribbled on the back in Amir’s distinct handwriting were the words:
"Shazia and her son. The day they were taken."
Shabad stumbled back, the weight of the revelation crushing him. His mind raced as fragmented memories surfaced—faint whispers from his childhood, the lingering sadness in his mother’s eyes, the unanswered questions about his father.
Shabad: (to himself, panicking) “Why is she in this picture? Why was she there... carrying me? What is this?”
He stared at the photo again, his focus drawn to the cold, lifeless eyes of the armed men in the background. His mother’s face was etched with fear, yet her arms cradled him protectively. The truth, whatever it was, felt like a dark abyss threatening to pull him in.
Shabad sank to the floor, clutching the photo. His mind filled with questions he couldn’t answer. Why had his mother been in such a deadly situation?
Determined to uncover the truth, Shabad picked up the diary again. This time, not to destroy it, but to read it cover to cover, hoping it would shed light on the dark secrets that bound him and Amir together.
