When I recall the chase after the other Praveen, I cannot point out anything truly unusual. Except that he could almost smell our presence. That is not a crime. But he was a killer—someone within the ambit of the police.
But this guy raises the hair on the neck and makes me feel like I am speaking with a cadaver. Again, that is no crime. I was on my way to his house. I hope he is at home. At least let me clear my mind, clear it of suspicion.
His house stands in an area a bit far from the main road, leaving only a bit of traffic. I stood on the road and stared at his house—a single storied house designed after the old Kerala style.