“The package didn’t arrive,” I lied. I didn’t want to discuss Willy any more. “Chhotu will probably take care of it tomorrow.”

As I withheld crucial information from her, I had to remind myself that, as far as I knew, Willy’s business was completely on the up and up. That helped me maintain my poker face.

“No more favors for Willy,” she said, sliding the gun into the drawer next to her pillow.

“Why haven’t you told him about this place?” I asked as we lay on the rumpled bed, sheets torn off to the side. “The real reason.”

“I told you he doesn’t know and never will. He’d only bring Zadya here.”

“Chhotu,” I scoffed. “With his hee-haw pronunciation. What an ass.”

“Hee-haw?”

“Yes, you know. His exaggerated British accent.”

She snorted a laugh through her nose. “It’s haw-haw, not hee-haw, Danny.”

That stung.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” I said to put my embarrassment behind me. “You allowed Willy to move into your Bombay flat and your Poona bungalow. Why not this place?”

Her mirth dried up. Totally still, she stared up at the ceiling. I gazed at her profile. Her long eyelashes, straight nose, and full lips. Her naked body. She didn’t answer me. I wondered for an instant if she was breathing. But the rise and fall of her breast told me she was indeed alive and not some beautiful statue in eternal repose.

“Sush?”

“This was my parents’ home,” she said, eyes sparkling in the dying candlelight from across the room. “My childhood home.”

Her tone was so fragile and final that I didn’t dare ask anything else. I lay back on my pillow and joined her in silent contemplation of the ceiling.

Soon after the sun had risen, she climbed out of bed, playful and all smiles. Gone were the intensity and the gloom of a few hours before. She hovered over me, teasing me, tickling me.

“Get up, lazybones,” she said. “And no bath,” she warned. “The Deccan Express passes through Lonavala at 9:38, and you’re going to be on it.”

“There’s plenty of time for a bath,” I said.

“It’s not a question of time, Danny. You must look as if you’ve spent the night in an awful boardinghouse when you arrive in Poona. And don’t forget to destroy your tickets. Last night’s and today’s. You can’t risk Willy’s finding them.”

She was right. If I arrived at Willy’s looking fresh, he might ask questions.

“It’s pouring rain outside,” she continued. “By the time you hike back to the station, you’ll be soaked. And then two hours in the third-class compartment will erase all traces of last night.”

“You’re making me walk to the station?”

“It’s what you deserve after landing up unannounced. Go.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, 1975, 12:13 P.M.