The interrogation came fast. Meena briefed Vikram by phone. “He’s cracking, sir. Says Priya’s alive. Claims she ran off with a lover after he lost everything to loan sharks. The trunk? Just old clothes he sold to scrape by. The blood was his—cut his hand on a broken bottle during a fight.”

The humid Mumbai evening clung to Inspector Vikram Deshmukh like a second skin as he sat on his balcony, sipping lukewarm chai. His leg, still in a cast from a botched encounter with a Bandra gang, confined him to his third-floor flat in a crumbling chawl.

Across the narrow lane stood the Jai Hind Apartments, a garish yellow building buzzing with life—families arguing, radios blaring, and the occasional whiff of frying masala drifting through the air. Vikram, a man of sharp instincts dulled by forced inactivity, had taken to watching his neighbors. It was better than staring at the peeling paint of his own walls.

His binoculars rested on the table, a habit from his days tailing suspects. Lately, they’d become his window to the world. There was Mrs. Sharma, the nosy widow who gossiped relentlessly; young Ravi, an aspiring Bollywood dancer practicing his moves; and then, the Kapoors—Rohan and Priya.

Rohan, a wiry man with a perpetual scowl, ran a small textile shop in Crawford Market. Priya, his wife, was a striking woman who seemed out of place in their modest flat, her silk sarees and gold bangles hinting at a past life of luxury. Vikram had noticed tension between them—muffled shouts late at night, Priya’s tear-streaked face glimpsed through the curtains.

Tonight, though, something felt off. The Kapoors’ flat was dark, save for a flickering light in the kitchen. Vikram adjusted his binoculars. Rohan stood by the sink, scrubbing something furiously. A red stain spread across his kurta. Blood? Vikram’s pulse quickened. He leaned forward, wincing as his cast scraped the chair. Priya was nowhere in sight. The clock ticked past midnight, and then he saw it—Rohan dragging a heavy trunk toward the door. The man struggled, sweat beading on his forehead, before disappearing into the stairwell.

Vikram’s mind raced. He’d seen enough crime scenes to recognize the signs: the sudden absence, the suspicious cleanup, the trunk. He grabbed his phone and dialed Constable Meena Patil, his sharp-witted junior who’d been pestering him to rest. “Meena, get to Jai Hind Apartments. Flat 3B. Something’s wrong.”

“Sir, you’re supposed to be off duty,” Meena protested, her voice crackling through the line.

“Just do it,” he snapped, hanging up. He hobbled to the edge of the balcony, peering down as Rohan emerged onto the street, loading the trunk into a battered auto-rickshaw. The vehicle sputtered off into the night, swallowed by Mumbai’s labyrinthine lanes.

Meena arrived twenty minutes later, her khaki uniform damp from the drizzle. “Flat’s empty, sir. No sign of Priya. Neighbors say they heard shouting last night, but that’s not unusual for them.” She hesitated. “There’s a wet spot on the kitchen floor. Smells like bleach.”

“Blood?” Vikram asked, his gut tightening.

“Could be. Forensics will tell us. But Rohan’s gone. Took an auto, they say.”

Vikram cursed his useless leg. “Find that rickshaw. Check the textile shop too. He’s hiding something.”

The next day dragged on, each hour gnawing at Vikram’s nerves. Meena called at dusk. “Shop’s closed. No rickshaw yet, but we found Priya’s phone in a gutter near the chawl. Screen’s cracked, but it’s hers—selfies with her bangles match.”

Vikram’s suspicions hardened into certainty. Rohan had killed her. The trunk, the blood, the phone—it all fit. But where was the body? Mumbai was a city of secrets, its slums and shores perfect for hiding sins. He pictured Rohan dumping the trunk into the Arabian Sea or burying it in the mangroves near Versova.

That night, the Jai Hind Apartments glowed with their usual chaos—except for Flat 3B. Vikram trained his binoculars on it again, restless. Then, a shadow moved. Rohan was back. Alone. He paced the flat, clutching a wad of cash, his face gaunt with paranoia. Vikram dialed Meena. “He’s here. Move now.”

Minutes later, sirens wailed. Meena and a team stormed the building. Vikram watched, heart pounding, as they dragged Rohan out in handcuffs. He shouted something about “debts” and “no choice,” but the words drowned in the commotion.

The interrogation came fast. Meena briefed Vikram by phone. “He’s cracking, sir. Says Priya’s alive. Claims she ran off with a lover after he lost everything to loan sharks. The trunk? Just old clothes he sold to scrape by. The blood was his—cut his hand on a broken bottle during a fight.”

Vikram frowned. “The phone?”

“Admits he tossed it. Says she left it behind, and he panicked, thought it’d lead the sharks to her.”

It didn’t add up. Rohan’s story was too neat, too rehearsed. Vikram’s instincts screamed murder, but without a body, they had nothing. He sent Meena to dig deeper—check Priya’s bank records, her friends, anything.

Two days later, the twist came. Meena burst into Vikram’s flat, breathless. “Sir, Priya’s alive. Spotted at a women’s shelter in Pune. She’s bruised but breathing. Says Rohan beat her, threatened to kill her over his debts. She staged her disappearance—dropped the phone, smeared his kurta with chicken blood from the kitchen. Wanted him to think she was dead so he’d stop hunting her.”

Vikram exhaled, a rare smile breaking through. “Clever woman. And the trunk?” “Clothes, like he said. He was too broke to notice her plan.”

Rohan faced charges for assault, not murder. Priya vanished again, this time with a new name, leaving Mumbai’s shadows behind. Vikram leaned back on his balcony, chai in hand, watching the city hum. He’d been wrong, yet right—his instincts had sniffed out a crime, just not the one he’d imagined. The binoculars stayed on the table, but for once, he didn’t reach for them. Some mysteries, he decided, could wait.