Such a Perfect Family, page 1
Berkley Titles by Nalini Singh
Psy-Changeling Series
Slave to Sensation
Visions of Heat
Caressed by Ice
Mine to Possess
Hostage to Pleasure
Branded by Fire
Blaze of Memory
Bonds of Justice
Play of Passion
Kiss of Snow
Tangle of Need
Heart of Obsidian
Shield of Winter
Shards of Hope
Allegiance of Honor
Psy-Changeling Trinity Series
Silver Silence
Ocean Light
Wolf Rain
Alpha Night
Last Guard
Storm Echo
Resonance Surge
Primal Mirror
Atonement Sky
Guild Hunter Series
Angels’ Blood
Archangel’s Kiss
Archangel’s Consort
Archangel’s Blade
Archangel’s Storm
Archangel’s Legion
Archangel’s Shadows
Archangel’s Enigma
Archangel’s Heart
Archangel’s Viper
Archangel’s Prophecy
Archangel’s War
Archangel’s Sun
Archangel’s Light
Archangel’s Resurrection
Archangel’s Lineage
Archangel’s Ascension
Archangel’s Eternity
Thrillers
A Madness of Sunshine
Quiet in Her Bones
There Should Have Been Eight
Such a Perfect Family
Anthologies
An Enchanted Season
(with Maggie Shayne, Erin McCarthy, and Jean Johnson)
The Magical Christmas Cat
(with Lora Leigh, Erin McCarthy, and Linda Winstead Jones)
Must Love Hellhounds
(with Charlaine Harris, Ilona Andrews, and Meljean Brook)
Burning Up
(with Angela Knight, Virginia Kantra, and Meljean Brook)
Angels of Darkness
(with Ilona Andrews, Meljean Brook, and Sharon Shinn)
Angels’ Flight
Wild Invitation
Night Shift
(with Ilona Andrews, Lisa Shearin, and Milla Vane)
Wild Embrace
Specials
Angels’ Pawn
Angels’ Dance
Texture of Intimacy
Declaration of Courtship
Whisper of Sin
Secrets at Midnight
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
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Copyright © 2026 by Nalini Singh
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Cover design by Rita Frangie Batour
Book design by Laura K. Corless, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
Interior art: That Wānaka Tree © Richarya/Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Singh, Nalini, 1977- author
Title: Such a perfect family / Nalini Singh.
Description: New York: Berkley, 2026.
Identifiers: LCCN 2025024278 (print) | LCCN 2025024279 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780593549797 hardcover | ISBN 9780593549803 ebook
Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels | Fiction
Classification: LCC PR9639.4.S566 S83 2026 (print) | LCC PR9639.4.S566 (ebook)
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025024278
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025024279
Ebook ISBN 9780593549803
The authorized representative in the EU for product safety and compliance is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68, Ireland, https://eu-contact.penguin.ie.
prhid_prh_7.4a_154988313_c0_r0
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_154988313_
Chapter 1
I’d buried Susanne on this day in October five years ago.
My hands clenched on the steering wheel, my chest tight at the sudden, crushing memory of the first woman I’d ever loved. Complex, sophisticated Susanne Winthorpe, lover of red dresses and stiletto heels, who never stepped foot out of the home without her signature full face of makeup—and at least one diamond.
As different from Diya as the sun was from the moon.
The tightness in my chest evaporated as I thought of how my wife’s face would light up when I handed her the box of little taster cakes on the front passenger seat. She’d asked me to pick them up from the bakery so we could choose a cake for the reception to take place after our religious wedding ceremony in six months’ time; my in-laws weren’t satisfied with the fact we were legally married, wanted the whole shindig.
So I’d be getting married to Diya all over again…and that was more than fine with me.
My heart doing that thing it did only for her, I made sure to take the corners with smooth grace to ensure the cake box didn’t slide off the seat and onto the floor. Water glinted to my right as I passed Lake Tikitapu, which Diya had told me was also called the Blue Lake, the morning sunlight a bright sparkle that had already lured a couple of kayakers onto the water.
I hoped they were wearing wet suits just in case.
The end of October in New Zealand meant spring—brilliant sunshine, crisp temperatures, cherry blossoms and wisteria blooms—but the lakes still felt as cold as ice to my Los Angeles-born-and-bred body. I couldn’t figure out how my father-in-law jumped into frigid lake water every morning for a vigorous one-hour swim.
“It’s good for the heart, my boy!”
Then Lake Tikitapu was in my rearview mirror, with Lake Rotokākahi, or the Green Lake, coming up ahead. Nestled in the thick green bush in between was a lookout from which you could see both lakes. I continued past, my destination the far larger body of water that was Rajesh Prasad’s daily swimming spot.
It didn’t take long, the road all but empty today.
I’d already turned into th e drive that led to the beautifully landscaped and expansive property that was the Prasad family home when I noticed smoke drifting up above the tops of the native trees and ferns that flanked the path’s gentle downward slope.
Smoke in the closest township wasn’t unusual—Rotorua was a geothermal city known for its boiling mud pools, hot springs, and geysers, alongside the distinctive scent of sulfur that came and went with the wind. Friends of the Prasads in the city had recently ended up with a sinkhole in their front yard. Small, it mostly blew up curls of hot white smoke—but go deeper and I had no doubt you’d encounter water or mud capable of giving you third-degree burns.
The authorities had fenced off the sinkhole and evacuated everyone from the home while they investigated, and the family involved had been joking about charging people to come look at their own personal piece of geothermal scenery. Beneath the jokes, however, was the fear that their home was sitting atop a disaster waiting to happen.
But the Prasad home wasn’t in Rotorua proper. It sat on the edge of the clear blue-green waters of Lake Tarawera, a good twenty-five-minute drive out of the main part of the city, longer if roadworks were in progress. Close enough to be doable for two specialists who rarely had patient emergencies, but far enough to have the feel of a peaceful enclave set apart from the city.
It wasn’t that Lake Tarawera didn’t feature any geothermal activity—as I’d discovered to my delight when Diya led me on an overnight hike to a hot-water beach on the shores of the lake. We’d walked out of the bush after our hike under the stars to the surreal sight of steam rising off the water, the small boats anchored on the lake ghostly afterimages.
But this smoke…it was too black, too dark, too high.
My mouth dried up.
I pressed my foot to the accelerator pedal and just glimpsed the Prasads’ nearest neighbors—a family of three—running into the drive behind me; their mouths were open, as if they were yelling. Ignoring them, I turned the corner of the drive—to come to a screeching halt behind a bright yellow Mini Cooper.
The cake box slammed onto the passenger floorboard.
“Diya!” It came out a scream as I tumbled from the car in front of the elegant single-level family home that now boiled with fire.
The lake lapped placidly in the background, below a sweep of green lawn that led to a private jetty and boathouse, with the bush-clad hills on the other side casting shadows across the wide swath of water.
The Prasad home was—had been—a showpiece. Huge panes of glass, polished wood stained a rich black, landscaping heavy with native trees and shrubs, each element thoughtfully put together to create a property that fit the landscape rather than attempting to conquer it. Unlike some of the McMansions I’d seen in lakeside towns, the homes around Lake Tarawera weren’t about a display of excess, but about quiet, luxurious beauty.
Tucked in between the newer builds were a number of small and well-maintained cottages from another time, pretty little chocolate-box things with planters that had just begun to overflow with flowers as spring took solid hold.
The Prasad home had been constructed only eight years earlier—from bespoke plans created by an award-winning architect. Even the attached garage and the apartment above it had been designed with care. Stained a black to match the main house, the garage’s roll-up door appeared to be wood of the same shade, while the apartment’s triangular facing walls on both sides were glass.
That glass was shattered now.
All the glass was gone, nothing but shards that burned with reflected fire, glowing pieces of shrapnel on the charred lawn.
Black smoke poured out of the resulting gaping holes and through the roof, which had partially fallen in, while jets of flame shot out through the side of the house that had boasted a grand open-plan kitchen designed for entertaining, complete with a dining area centered around an artisan-constructed table of reclaimed swamp kauri.
Thousands of dollars of precious wood that was now kindling.
All of it to feed a fire that might’ve stolen something infinitely more precious to me.
The heat scalded my skin even from this distance out, my arm rising instinctively in an effort to shield my face as I moved toward Diya’s beloved car in the vain hope that she was sitting shell-shocked behind the wheel. Of course it was empty—and it was parked behind her brother’s black Mercedes-Benz SUV and her father’s cream-colored Lexus.
“Call the fire department!” I screamed at the neighbors who’d raced down the drive behind me.
I’d seen the building that housed the Lake Tarawera Fire Station, a curve of black with huge barn-style doors on the lake side of the road, knew it wasn’t far. Diya had told me it was a volunteer-run station—I didn’t know what that meant, whether it was staffed twenty-four seven or not.
If we had to wait for help from Rotorua…
“We already called! But I’ll call again and tell them how bad it is!” the neighbors’ teenage son yelled, while I and the dad—I couldn’t remember the stocky man’s name—ran toward the fire.
The mother, in shorts and a tank top too lightweight for the chill morning air, her feet bare and her ash-blond hair falling out of a loose bun, turned to shout at her son. “Bring the phone back with you!”
Already some distance away, I barely heard her.
Grit in my throat, a stinging in my eyes. I began to cough well before we reached the wider periphery of the house, the smoke was so noxious. Lifting my forearm to my nose, I blinked rapidly in an effort to see the front door through my watering eyes.
Even though Diya and I lived in the apartment above the garage, I knew she’d be in the main part of the house. She was a creature of family, loved being involved, wouldn’t have been able to bear being out of the mix when she saw that her brother and sister-in-law had come to visit.
Especially today. The morning after the party.
She’d have been so excited to discuss the night with her sister-in-law, who happened to be her best friend. And all the while, she’d have been keeping an ear open for the sound of the forest green Alfa Romeo Stelvio Quadrifoglio I’d borrowed from her mother for my run into the city, since my long legs weren’t as comfortable in the Mini.
Truth was, I just liked driving the high-performance vehicle Dr. Sarita Prasad called her “midlife noncrisis” car.
“After working my tail off all these years,” she’d said to me when I admired it, “I decided I deserved this ridiculously gorgeous thing even if it gives me palpitations that it’s worth more than our first house!” Then she’d handed me the key. “Go, have fun. Give it a workout.”
This morning, she’d already been for her morning run when I popped my head into the main house. Still in her running gear, her curly hair up in a ponytail, she’d lobbed the key at me before I could ask to borrow the vehicle, her smile wide enough to carve grooves in her cheeks. She loved that I loved the car as much as she did—it had been our first conversation about the Alfa Romeo that had taken our relationship from awkward acquaintances to the beginnings of true family.
“No, man! You can’t go in!” The neighbor’s breathless voice from behind me, his hand gripping the back of the long-sleeved gray T-shirt I’d thrown on for the drive into Rotorua. “The fire’s too strong! The front door’s collapsed!”
He was right, but I wasn’t about to abandon Diya. Given the presence of the Lexus and the Mercedes, I knew four other people must’ve been inside the house when it went up in flame, but helping them would be a thing automatic, a thing I’d do for any human.
Saving Diya was my reason for being.
“Go around to the right!” I yelled at the neighbor. “I’ll go left! See if you can find a way in!”
The other man didn’t argue, just took off in a wide arc around the burning house while I did the same on the other side. I stayed closer, though, close enough that soot and ash landed on my T-shirt and the heat blazed against one side of my face.
Sweat pooled under my armpits, beaded along my brow.
Please, baby, please.
It was a mantra inside my head as I searched frantically for any possible entrance into the house. I knew where Diya would’ve most likely been—in the large central living room filled with comfortable sofas and the biggest wall-mounted television I’d ever seen. That living room flowed off the kitchen so that it was all one huge area separated only by furniture, plants, and clever placement of artwork.
