“It’s getting late, old chap,” he said. “He’s probably told the police where to find us. Let’s get rid of him and go.”

“Wait outside. This won’t take long.”

Chhotu stepped back and closed the door. Willy retook his seat and leaned toward me again, elbows on his knees, his eyes pleading with me.

“Tell me, Danny. I need to know. Are the police coming?”

I told him no. That I hadn’t expected to find anyone in the bungalow, least of all him. “Sush swore to me that you knew nothing about this place,” I said, tears clouding my eyes.

Willy reached out and squeezed my hand. He pinched his lips together, and I thought he was going to cry.

“I’m sorry, Danny Boy,” he said. “She’s a troubled girl. You mustn’t think she lied to hurt you. She did it to protect herself.”

Chhotu called through the door, again urging Willy to hurry.

Willy let go of my hand, and I wished I could beat him to a pulp. For his abuse of Sushmita, who needed to invent lies to cope with what he’d done to her. A twelve-year-old girl, for God’s sake. I thought of the little bride in Kamathipura, too. How many more were there?

Chhotu banged on the door now. Willy turned his head and yelled for him to go wait in the car. As he did, I slid open the bedside drawer, pulled Sushmita’s gun from inside, and pointed it at him. I told him I was going to kill him.

Willy reeled around, then sighed. He pulled a handgun of his own out of the waistband beneath his bush coat.

My eyes grew wide. “Put it down or I’ll shoot you, I swear it!”

But Willy simply raised the gun and pointed it at my head.

And I did it. I did what I’d warned him I’d do. For twelve-year-old Sushmita, I did it. For the little bride auctioned off, I did it. And for the countless unknown lives he’d ruined, despoiled, I did it. I squeezed the trigger.

And nothing happened. I tried to fire again and again and again, always with the same result.

“Danny Boy,” whispered Willy, looking exhausted as he lowered his gun to his side. “Do you really think I would let Mita have a loaded Makarov pistol? Or even a functioning gun? She’s a depressive. She’s tried to kill herself many times. I had the firing pin removed from that pistol before I gave it to her.”

That was it, then. Either I’d throw the useless weapon at him and knock him cold, or I was dead.

But I was wrong.

Shoulders sagging, Willy turned, opened the door, and shuffled out of the room. I called to him.

“You’re not going to kill me?”