17. The Second Victim

The investigation into the burner phone consumed Neeraj's waking hours. Ramesh had assembled a team of specialists—a former telecom engineer, a data analyst, and a private investigator who specialized in digital forensics. They worked in shifts, combing through records, tracing signals, reconstructing the digital footprints of the person who had been threatening him.

But the trail was cold. The burner had been purchased with cash from a shop that had no surveillance cameras. The SIM card had been registered to a fictitious name. The phone had been used only twice—once to send the first threat, once to send the second. After that, it had been powered down and presumably destroyed.

"Whoever this is, they know what they are doing," Ramesh said. "They are not an amateur. They have training, resources, and patience."

"Then we need to be patient too," Neeraj replied. "We wait. We watch. Eventually, they will make a mistake."

But patience was not Neeraj's strong suit. The threats had awakened something in him, a hunger to find the source, to confront the person who was trying to destroy him. He spent his nights reviewing the evidence, his days meeting with Aasha Ray, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Aasha was thorough in her interviews. She asked about his childhood, his family, his time at St. George's. She asked about the locker room incident, the years of silence, the decision to become a lawyer. She asked about the case, the threats, the manipulation. She asked about everything.

And Neeraj answered. For the first time in his life, he answered honestly.

He told her about the fear, the rage, the cold satisfaction of watching Ravi Malik's face crumble in the courtroom. He told her about the threats he had made, the lines he had crossed, the guilt that had consumed him since the verdict. He told her about his mother, about Parvati, about Aruna and Kavita. He told her everything.

Aasha listened without judgment. She took notes, asked follow-up questions, pushed him to explore the emotions behind the actions. It was therapeutic, in a way, to speak the truth out loud. But it was also terrifying, to lay his soul bare to a stranger.

"Thank you," Aasha said at the end of their fourth session. "This has been incredibly valuable. I know it was not easy."

"It was not," Neeraj admitted. "But it was necessary. I needed to say it."

Aasha packed her notebook and stood to leave. At the door, she turned back. "There is something I have not told you, Advocate Verma. Something that might be relevant to your investigation."

"What?"

"I have received threats too," she said. "Anonymous messages, similar to yours. They told me to stop the book, to leave you alone. I ignored them, of course. But they are getting more frequent. More aggressive."

Neeraj felt a chill run down his spine. "Why did you not tell me this before?"

"I did not want to distract you. But now, I think it is important. Whoever is threatening us, they are connected. They are trying to silence both of us."

Neeraj nodded slowly. "That narrows it down. Someone who is afraid of the truth. Someone who has something to hide."

He called Ramesh immediately. "The threats are not just aimed at me. Aasha Ray is being targeted too. That changes everything."

"Changes how?"

"It means the threat is not personal. It is professional. Someone is trying to stop the book, to prevent the truth from coming out. That means it is not just about me. It is about the case, about Ravi Malik, about the network that supported him."

Ramesh was silent for a moment. "That makes it bigger than we thought. It could be anyone—Ravi's associates, Seth's allies, even people in the government who were implicated in the corruption."

"We need to find out who," Neeraj said. "And we need to do it before they escalate."

The next day, Neeraj received a package. It was delivered to his office by courier, no return address, no identifying markings. He opened it with trembling hands.

Inside was a single item: the worn photograph of the three boys in their St. George's uniforms. The one he had kept in his desk drawer for so many years.

But this was not his copy. This was a different copy, one that had been marked with a red pen. An X had been drawn over his own face. And underneath, in the same red ink, a message: "You are not the only one with secrets, Neeraj."

Neeraj stared at the photograph, his blood cold. Someone had been in his office. Someone had accessed his desk drawer, taken the photograph, made a copy, and returned the original without him noticing. The security that Ramesh had installed, the guards, the cameras—they had been bypassed as if they were nothing.

He called Ramesh, his voice shaking. "Someone was in my office. They took something from my desk. They left a package. It was delivered by courier, but they must have been here first."

Ramesh arrived within minutes. He checked the security footage, the logs of the building's entry system. There was no sign of forced entry, no record of an unauthorized visitor. The person who had taken the photograph had been invisible.

"This is not good," Ramesh said. "Whoever this is, they are very, very good. They have access to your building, your office, your personal belongings. They can get to you anytime they want."

"Then we need to change the game," Neeraj said. "We need to draw them out, to make them reveal themselves."

"How?"

Neeraj thought for a moment. "We leak a story. A fake story. We say that the book is going to reveal the identity of the person behind the threats. We say that I have found evidence, that I know who it is. We make them panic, make them act."

Ramesh nodded slowly. "That could work. But it is risky. If they do not fall for it, we have wasted our time. And if they do fall for it, they might escalate. They might try something more aggressive."

"I am willing to take that risk," Neeraj said. "I am tired of being hunted. It is time to do the hunting."

They put the plan into motion. Mira wrote an article for the Sarania Herald, hinting at a major breakthrough in the investigation into the anonymous threats. She mentioned that the source of the threats was "a prominent figure with ties to the Malik case," and that the book would expose them.

The article went viral. The comments section was flooded with speculation. The media picked up the story, and soon, it was everywhere.

And then, Neeraj waited.

For two days, nothing happened. The silence was agonizing. Neeraj spent his nights in his office, the guards on high alert, his phone always in his hand. He checked the listening device, the security feeds, the door logs. Nothing.

On the third day, he received a message. Not a text this time, but a physical letter, delivered by hand to his office. It was typed, unsigned, and brief.

"You are playing a dangerous game, Neeraj. You think you can expose me? You think you can find me? You are wrong. I am closer than you think. I know you better than you know yourself. And I will not be stopped."

Neeraj read the letter three times. The handwriting was neat, the paper was high quality. There were no fingerprints, no identifying marks. But there was something about the tone, the phrasing, that felt familiar.

He called Ramesh. "I need you to run a handwriting analysis. And I need you to check the paper, the ink, the printer. I want to know everything about this letter."

Ramesh took the letter and left. Neeraj sat in his office, his mind churning. The letter had been delivered by hand, which meant the sender had been in the building. The guards had not seen anyone. The cameras had not recorded anyone. Whoever it was, they were invisible.

But the letter had a clue. The phrasing, the tone—they reminded Neeraj of someone. Someone who knew him, knew his past, knew his weaknesses. Someone who had been close to him.

He thought about Mira. She had been with him throughout the case, had seen him at his best and his worst. She knew his secrets, his lies, his manipulations. But she had no reason to threaten him. She had been his ally, his friend.

He thought about Ramesh. He had been loyal, dependable, always ready to help. But he also knew everything—every secret, every crime, every crossed line. If Ramesh had turned against him, he would have access to everything.

He thought about Sanjay Bhan, about Parvati, about Kavita and Aruna. They all knew his secrets. They all had motives to turn against him.

But none of them had the training, the resources, the patience to pull off an operation like this. Whoever was behind the threats was a professional. A former intelligence officer, like Seth. Someone who knew how to disappear, how to manipulate, how to destroy.

Neeraj called Mira. "I need to talk to you. Privately."

She came to his office that evening. Her face was pale, her eyes wary. "What is this about, Neeraj?"

"I need to ask you something," he said. "And I need you to be honest with me."

"Of course."

"Are you the one threatening me?"

Mira's face went white. "What? No. Neeraj, how could you even think that?"

"I have to ask. You know everything. You have the skills, the resources, the connections. And you have been with me from the beginning."

"I have been with you because I believe in you," Mira said, her voice trembling with anger. "I have risked my career, my safety, my life for this case. And you think I am the one who is threatening you?"

"I do not know what to think," Neeraj said. "Someone is trying to destroy me. And they know everything. They know my secrets, my lies, my manipulations. They knew about the photograph. They knew about my mother. They knew about Aasha. The only people who know all of that are the people closest to me."

Mira stood up, her face flushed with anger. "If you truly believe that I am behind this, then there is nothing more I can say. I have done everything I can to help you. I have been your ally, your friend, your confidante. And now you accuse me?"

Neeraj said nothing. He watched her, searching for any sign of deception. But all he saw was hurt, betrayal, and rage.

"I am going to leave now," Mira said. "And when you are ready to apologize, when you are ready to trust me again, you can call me. But until then, I am done."

She walked out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

Neeraj sat in the silence, the weight of his accusation pressing down on him. He had driven away his closest ally, had accused her of something she had not done. He was alone, more alone than he had ever been.

And then his phone buzzed.

It was a message from the burner number. "You are so close, Neeraj. But you are looking in the wrong direction. The person who is threatening you is closer than you think. Closer than Mira. Closer than Ramesh. Closer than anyone."

Neeraj stared at the screen. The message was a taunt, a game. But it was also a clue. The sender was telling him that he was looking in the wrong direction.

And then, the realization hit him like a physical blow.

The only person who knew everything. The only person who had been with him from the beginning, who had seen every choice, every crime, every secret. The only person who had the training and the patience to pull off an operation like this.

The person who had sent the threats was himself.

No. That was impossible. He had not sent the threats. He had received them. He had been terrorized by them. But what if—what if he had done it without knowing? What if he had been manipulated, influenced, programmed?

He thought about the night of the first message. He had been exhausted, sleep-deprived, running on adrenaline and rage. What if someone had taken advantage of that? What if they had planted the messages on his own phone, made him believe he was being threatened when he was actually the one doing the threatening?

It was a paranoid thought, a conspiracy theory worthy of the most delusional minds. But Neeraj could not shake it.

He called Ramesh. "I need you to run a psychological evaluation on me. I need to know if I am losing my mind."

Ramesh was silent for a long moment. "Neeraj, I think you need to rest. You have been under immense stress. You are not thinking clearly."

"I know," Neeraj said. "That is why I need the evaluation. I need to know if I am the one behind this."

The line went quiet. Then Ramesh spoke, his voice soft. "I will make the arrangements. But Neeraj—you need to trust me. I am not your enemy. I am your friend."

"I know," Neeraj said. "But I do not know who is."

He hung up and sat in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. The game was not over. It was reaching its final, most terrifying phase.

And Neeraj did not know if he would survive it.