The assassin, now carrying the weight of two deaths (the politician and the innocent Malli) plus a child, needed a temporary hiding place. He decided to drop the boy at his grandparents' remote village. One night. No strings.

"Pardhu! My son! You've come home after fifteen years!"

He got into the jeep.

But so did a young, innocent vegetable seller named Malli. A stray bullet, ricocheting off a hidden steel plate on the target, had found an unintended heart. For the first time, the shadow had missed. Worse, a terrified young boy, the dead Malli’s little brother, had seen his face.