One year later
It was 7.30 p.m. The affluent town of Kilchberg, on the silver coast of Zurich, was quiet on that cold winter night. She stood in the garden of a two-storeyed villa, her slim figure clad in denims and a green cardigan, watching the sun slowly disappear over Lake Zurich.
She took another sip of coffee and looked down at the week-old Indian newspaper she was holding. She turned to page two and read the headlines again, as she had done several times over the past days, as if to confirm that they had not changed with time.
But she had. The thought caught her unawares. She shook her head; no, she had not changed. It was as if her earlier self did not exist, ever. The one who joined the police force for the right reasons. The one who wanted to live a straightforward, honest life. She could not remember when that Meera Dixit had died. Or who killed her. Maybe she had, herself.
The chance encounter with Rohit in the first year of her posting in Mumbai. And then, life—or rather, death—took its own course. Love spawned overriding greed and ambition. And a lack of remorse. Tanvi’s illness presented the opportunity; careful preparation and planning did the rest. And Aditya, the perfect fall guy, completed the plot by pulling the trigger.
She did not notice Rohit come out into the garden with a can of beer, until he was standing next to her, his arm around her. Meera said nothing.
As if reading her mind, he asked, ‘Any regrets?’
She gently touched his left shoulder, at the exact spot where a faint scar still remained. ‘Only this,’ she said.
Rohit took the newspaper from her hand, his eyes caressing the headline again: Violet Pharma buys Rohit Acharya’s 45 per cent stake in Bakshi Pharma for 900 crores.
‘We have done it,’ he chuckled.
She smiled and kissed him.