The drizzle had softened to a mist by the time the black Mercedes wound through the coastal roads of Bandra. Priya sat in the back seat, the marigold garland looped over her arm, its petals beaded with moisture. She had expected a cemetery. She had prepared herself for granite and grief, for the weight of standing before Arvind Kapoor's grave and facing the full cost of her father's sins. But the car did not turn toward any temple or burial ground. It continued along the sea, past the bungalows of the wealthy and the remnants of old Portuguese architecture, until the road opened onto a promenade she recognized from childhood photographs.