"Hey, Kerosene," I spoke into the phone, "You received the cash?"

"Yeah," the voice from the phone barely spoke over the sound of the cheer downstairs, "but about your grocery list..."

"What about it?"

"Rashed," Kerosene sighed, "Four tons of tarmaric?"

"Again," I narrowed my eyes, even though kerosene couldn't see it, "what about it?"

"Why?"

"I'm gonna make curry," I yanked on a wild lock of my hair. My room, now brightly lit with the AC running, made it look

"If I'm gonna trust you, I need you to tell me-" there was a loud burst of static on the phone. A loud sound like an engine growling slipped past, "-more money."

I scowled, "What was that?"

"I said," his voice smoothed over a little, "if I'm gonna trust you, I need you to tell me. For a need-to-know errand, I'm gonna need more money. I expect you to understand that I run a business."

Ah, fuck. I didn't have more money. Not for him, anyway.

Kerosene was a merchant, no more no less. For all his talk of professionalism and client anonymity, he'd slither right into my father's lap the moment he's offered more money.

"I need to burn the tarmaric," I yanked on a loose thread on my bedsheet, "I need a smoke screen."

Kerosene was silent for a while.

"There are cheaper things that make better smoke," he said finally.

"But tarmaric makes smoke that burns your eyes," I said impatiently, "Now for God's sake, please-"

"What do you want to hide behind the smoke screen, Rashed?" He asked calmly. Eek!

"Client confidentiality," I said nonchalantly. Or at least that's what I like to believe.

"That's something I will manage. But before we do business, I need to know what we're up against," he paused for dramatic effect, "Call this a businessman's intuition."

I pinches the bridge of my nose and looked up at the white ceiling, "It's seriously better if you don't know what it's for."

"Which makes me wanna know about it all the more."

I gathered myself.

Do I trust him?

No.

Can I kill him later?

"Okay, fine," I regulated my breath, "I'm gonna murder my father."

There was silence on the other end. Long long silence.

"Kerosene-"

"This deal is over," there was just a tincture of hastiness in his voice, "Come to Kurali and take back your money."

"Kerosene, look-"

"The money will be in a orange bag, under the Shahid Minar. We may not make any exchanges, professional or personal, henceforth. Good day," and he hung up.

Of course, it was kerosene. Slick and oily as his namesake. Fucking spineless slug.

I dropped the phone on my bed. White bedsheet. What is this, hand-me-downs from mother?

Grabbing the remote control, I pointed towards the TV and clicked the power button. It didn't turn on.

Twelve fucking thousand years of technological development, and humans still have to point the remote at the TV for it to work.

After a minute of infrared marksmanship, the red glowy button underneath the black screen vanished, and seconds later, the wide screen flared up.

It was some useless talk show about the national budget, with obese old people shouting at each other in over complicated words. Afraid that if they put it simply, people won't respect them anymore. Beurocratic buffoons.

I tried paying attention, but the my head muted out the TV sounds on the third minute.

If Kerosene doesn't do my bidding then I'll just have to do it myself. But I needed a driver too, and I was hoping Kerosene would provide. If he's out of the equation, I'd have to manage one.

Which would be a problem, since I'd have to be in the same room as father.

I'd be lying if I said that I had it all planned. In truth, they were little more than disjointed ideas. And I only had little more than a week. There's wasn't a telling when mother would die, so I couldn't tell for sure. Might be less.

And Reshma's wedding was only the day after tomorrow.

I went into my phone contacts. Kerosene won't do it, but I need to find someone who can. He's not the only merchant I know.

I clicked on Dalia's number and held the phone to my ear. It rang thrice before picking up.

"Dalia Beauty delivery and services," spoke a woman's voice.

"Me, Rashed," I said somewhat impatiently.

"Ah, Rashed, my boy," the woman sounded jolly, "finally feeling the tickle of puberty? Should I send some over?"

"No, I—"

"Or do you want your sweet aunty Dalia?" She completely ignored me, "I charge significantly higher though."

"I'm not asking for a girl," I fought back a sharp reply; one that could've been taken with a double meaning, "I need your help in something else."

"Advance or pay on delivery?" Her tone did a backflip and landed on its head.

"Half advance and half on delivery."

"Do you have the money in hand?" She asked, quite curtly.

"Um, no," I stammered, "but I will soon enough."

"Call me when you do," and she hung up on me.

I pulled my phone from my ear and looked at the screen.

The bitch hung up on me!

I flopped down on the bed. The TV buzzed on distantly. The white room, with it's oversized TV and undersized wardrobe, looked mercilessly shadeless.

Murder was easy. Murder was pressing a knife into someone's back. Murder was pulling the trigger into someone's head. Murder was a push, a shove and a strike.

What was hard was getting away with it.

Lots have tried. Some succeeded. Most failed. And the main reason criminals got caught has always been because they thought themselves unique. They thought they're gonna be the special case that cannot be comformed to general investigation. They think they'll leave no evidence.

What a load of bullshit.

Everyone leaves evidence. Everyone screws the pooch eventually.

And I would be no different.

So, the best way to get away with murder wasn't doing it with no evidence. But doing it with enough evidence that points to a whole lot of people.

And that meant giving the highest possible number for people both the motivation and opportunity to murder father.

Someone knocked on my door, snapping me out of my megalomania.

"Come in," I said.

A servant peeked in. A young boy-slave of maybe eleven or twelve. He looked at me and immediately lowered his head, "Sir Sardar requests your presence, young master."

I stood up and stretched my spine.

This was gonna be good.