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The next morning, however, a rumor arrived like a stray dog: a girl had gone missing. People speculated, whispered. At the sari shop, over a stack of fresh bangles, voices threaded through the air: “Did you hear?” “No, not your daughter, surely?” “They say it was late, near the canal.” The rumor landed at the Rathod house and refused to budge.

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Months into the ordeal, a new piece of evidence came forward: a recording — not official, not meant to see the light — that complicated the neat geometry of accusation. It was a whisper at first: a conversation between two men talking about disposing of something near the canal. The voices were muffled; the place was indistinct. It fit the shape of everyone’s worst fears. Some wanted to send it into the world and watch the Rathods burn; others wanted to hide it, to pretend it never existed. Aditya treated the recording as both a key and a snare — its authenticity had to be established with precision, or it would become a scaffold for more lies.