The woman’s husband had encountered his share of racism while running small motels around the rural Midwest. Sometimes white customers would enter, see him or his wife working the desk, and leave. But Purinton didn’t say anything menacing to the woman at the desk. Minutes after checking into a room, he took off, heading to an Applebee’s down the road. There he asked a female bartender if he could hide out with her and her husband, confiding that he had just “shot and killed two Iranian people” in Olathe.

The bartender called the police, warning them to come in silently, no sirens. Minutes later, two officers stormed the restaurant, hauling Purinton away.

Johnson County Adult Detention Center, where Purinton is being held. Geordie Wood

In her blue house, five minutes from Purinton’s home, Nani called her husband again. Voicemail. She sent him an email with the subject line “Are you at work?” which he’d get if he was at his desk. No response. Annoyed, she figured he’d gone out for drinks without telling her, as he had several times in the past. Srinu had acknowledged the issue in a Valentine’s card a week earlier; despite his occasional thoughtlessness, he wrote, “I can’t imagine coming home and not seeing you … Yours lovingly, Srinu.”

As she began eating dinner, she scrolled through her Facebook feed. Then she saw the news: Three unnamed people shot at Austins, Srinu’s favorite happy hour spot. Two were in critical condition. She called Alok’s wife, Reepthi, who was five months pregnant. Alok had called his wife and told a fib designed to keep her calm. He had gone to the hospital to visit a cricket friend who was injured, he said, and might not be back until after midnight. Reepthi thought Srinu was with him, but Nani was unconvinced. She continued making calls and checking the driveway for Srinu’s Nissan Altima. An Olathe police car rolled up to her house instead.

In Garmin’s packed amphitheater, Nani calmly began talking, without notes, and would continue for an hour.

Two officers came to the door and asked her to sit down. Suddenly shivering, she sank onto the bottom steps of the stairway in the foyer.

Srinivas had been killed, they said.

“Are you sure?” Nani yelped. “Did you see the man you are talking about?! Can you show me a picture to identify? Is the man that you are talking about six foot two?!”

Yes.

Nani let out a howling scream.

Neighbors drove her to the hospital, but a clergy­man in the lobby told her he had been there when Srinu died and that his body was being readied for autopsy. Still in disbelief, she held up a picture of him on her phone: Was this the man? The clergyman nodded. With nothing left to do, Nani’s neighbors drove her to Manju’s house. She stayed up all night, pacing aimlessly. In those early hours, friends and family were already driving and boarding flights from Iowa, New Jersey, California, and Colorado. In the coming days, national reporters started arriving, snapping photos of bouquets placed in front of Austins. In the news in India, Alok’s father entreated other parents to stop sending their children to the US.

Thursday afternoon, exhausted, Nani walked into the room at Manju’s house where her friends were gathered.

“I want to talk to the press.”

The management at Garmin arranged a vigil and press conference for Friday morning, less than 48 hours after the murder. Dressed in an Indian salwar kameez, a bleary-eyed Nani walked into Garmin’s packed amphitheater and stood at the podium in front of hundreds of employees. She calmly began talking, without notes, and would continue for an hour. She told the group about how she and Srinu had first met in front of that temple in Hyderabad, and mimed craning her neck to see his face for the first time, drawing laughs. She joked that her husband made sure to take all 15 of his vacation days before leaving Rockwell Collins, because, he had told her, “I know Garmin doesn’t have it like that.” She told them how she nagged him about his happy hours, which seemed to drag on forever. As she spoke, she seemed to realize again and again that the plans they made together had now collapsed. She concluded abruptly, saying, “I just want to sing a song for him.” She then began a Hindi serenade out of a 1970s Bollywood film, her wavering voice changing its upbeat pulse into a lilting elegy. The melody echoed through the auditorium before her tears cut the verse short.

The scar where the shot passed through Ian Grillot's hand before it lodged in his chest. Geordie Wood Alok Madasani, one of many tech workers who would hang out at Austins, was shot in the leg but survived. Geordie Wood

Then Nani walked into another room to meet the throng of waiting press. Breathing heavily, her eyes wide, she spoke slowly but forcefully. “I was always concerned. Were we doing the right thing by staying in the United States of America? ... What will the government do to stop this hate crime? My husband would want justice to be done. We need an answer.”