Such a Perfect Family, page 7
False sympathy. An avaricious desire for drama and gossip.
Not their fault. I’d chosen to make friends with them, hadn’t I? I’d chosen to be the kind of man who surrounded himself with people who boosted my ego with their own status and glamour. Chasing love, my therapist had told me when I’d decided to go get my head shrunk after Jocelyn’s death.
“You really have to stop associating with vacuous people who say all the right things and fill up your days with meaningless company,” the bespectacled woman had advised. “What you need is the opposite. Not a shallow crowd but one or two people who see you down to the bone and call you on your bullshit.”
She would’ve liked Diya…but she would’ve liked Susanne most of all.
Susanne, Jocelyn, Virna, all had been touchpoints in my life before the luminous supernova of Diya, but it was Susanne who’d left the biggest, deepest mark.
Remember me after I’m gone, Tav. Be disgraceful now and then in my memory.
I’d never forget the woman who’d been the making of me.
She’d be so disappointed in what I’d done, what I’d become after her death.
After sending Aleki a thank-you message, I found a room in a motel not far from the hospital.
While food wasn’t topmost in my mind, my body reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and it was now after dark. Diya and I had been planning to have lunch together, picking our meal from the leftovers. All we’d have had to do was put a few things on an oven tray, heat them up for ten minutes.
“I can’t wait! I saw an entire box of those tiny croissants filled with smoked chicken in the fridge.” Diya had rubbed her flat abdomen. “I hardly ate any of it last night because I didn’t want my stomach to start pooching. The waist of my lehenga was way too tight to forgive a few pastries.”
I’d rolled my eyes. “Baby, your idea of pooching is my idea of sexy.”
A scowl ruined by a smile before she’d run to sit on my lap and kiss me like it was the first time all over again. “Mmm, you taste like coffee.” Soft, breathy words. “I could eat you up.”
That was how we’d ended up back in bed, and she’d been late for her shower. Had that been the moment that sealed her fate? Because earlier, she’d talked about riding along with me to pick up the cakes, but after we’d made love in the morning sunlight that slanted in through the apartment’s triangular windows, she’d decided to stay home, do her hair routine.
I hadn’t even thought about it, had just told her I’d be back soon.
Now she lay fighting for her life.
My stomach lurched, but, aware I had to function if I wasn’t going to end up in an interrogation room, leaving Diya alone, I ordered delivery from a Thai place, then had a shower. The food arrived ten minutes after I’d finished; I sat and ate it with methodical focus while skipping through the motel’s extensive list of channels until I finally hit on an evening news recap.
The fire was the lead item.
“Rotorua residents were shocked to hear of a fatal house fire in the Lake Tarawera community earlier today. The house belonged to husband and wife Drs. Rajesh and Sarita Prasad—two of the four partners of the Rotorua Fertility & Gynecological Group. While fire crews were able to stop the blaze from spreading to neighboring properties thanks in part to the Prasad property’s extensive lawns, the Prasad house is in ruins.
You can’t see the property from where I’m standing at the top of the drive, but we were able to get footage from the lake earlier, and as you can see, the damage is catastrophic. Neighbors report finding pieces of the home in their own yards, and we spotted debris floating in the lake.
The police have confirmed that they’re currently in the process of recovering human remains from the site, though it will take some time before they’re able to confirm the identities of the victims. However, from what the neighbors have told us, and what we’ve gleaned from the shocked and distraught staff at the fertility clinic, it’s highly likely that both doctors were inside at the time of the incident.
We’ve also been able to ascertain that two people did survive the fire and are in critical condition in Rotorua Hospital. Unconfirmed reports state that the two survivors showed signs of non-accidental injuries.”
“Sonia, do I have it correct, there are indications of foul play?”
“Yes, David. Police have announced a press conference tomorrow afternoon at four where they intend to share further information. For now, they’re focusing on identifying the victims and beginning the first stages of what is no doubt going to be a very complex investigation.”
There was nothing else of note in the rest of the report, but for the images of the house itself. The reporter had found her way onto the lake in time to get footage of the home while it was still burning, then had stuck around to get shots of the blackened and ruined aftermath, with the fire hoses pumping out foam to dampen the last embers.
The house was gone. So was the garage apartment.
All the photos pinned to the huge corkboard in Diya’s suite in the main house. All the tiny animal figurines she’d collected since girlhood. All the black-and-white images from her maternal and paternal grandparents’ lives in Fiji that her mum was so protective of because they had no backups beyond physical negatives—which had also been in the house.
Gone.
A family’s entire history erased from existence.
I switched off the TV and tried to make some sort of sense of it all. I couldn’t, my head thick with foggy thoughts when I finally fell into a restless sleep.
* * *
—
Jocelyn sat across from me in the dream, a cigarette in her mouth as she dealt cards with the speed of a Vegas dealer. Glossy black hair in a sleek bun, high cheekbones further defined by makeup, those striking green-black eyes that had first led a sixteen-year-old girl from her humble village in Henan Province, China, to the catwalks of Milan and Paris.
Then later, straight into back-to-back hit movies.
Even at sixty-one, she was considered a timeless beauty and still had a number of deals with companies that wanted her to wear their clothing and jewelry at various high-profile events.
“You don’t smoke those!” I blurted out. “You always say they’re cheap rubbish.”
“I borrowed it from some odious man, love. Every dealer should have a cigarette, after all.” She pretended to stub the unlit cigarette on the table before just leaving it there. “How much do you want to bet?” Her accent was “European,” as she’d put it—a mélange of her original accent and all the other places she’d lived and worked.
“Calling it European sounds so much better than saying I’m a vocal mongrel,” she’d said with a laugh one night as we drank together.
Jocelyn Wai was known for her bawdy humor, but in private, she could go straight to crass.
I’d liked that about her, liked that she had no filter.
“Bet, Tavish,” she said again, drawing out my name as she always did until it sounded more like Ta-veesh. “Come on, this suey isn’t going to chop itself.”
Pure Jocelyn. Taking the racial epithets and comments that had been directed her way before power and fame and making them a part of her signature snark.
Too real. Too much.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” I tried to push away from the table but the chair wouldn’t move.
“Oh really?” Jocelyn’s husky laughter drew my attention back to her. “Because of her? The love of your life? That insipid child? Oh, please. You were already bored of her before this unfortunate…accident. Such a shame she survived.”
“Shut up!” I flipped the table over, scattering the cards. “I love Diya!”
Jocelyn smiled. “You loved me, too, once.” Sorrow in her eyes. “What happened, Tavish? Did I get too old?” Her face began to crack and rot in front of me.
“Joss, no! Joss!”
But she wasn’t listening, her now-skeletal face focused on the cards she was dealing into empty air. “I screamed as I fell. The air cut like ice against my skin even though it was a warm night. Did you hear me?”
Flames licked around her, the scent of burned flesh in the air.
And suddenly, her face was Diya’s, the hands that dealt the cards coated in blood.
“Diya!” I jolted up in the flimsy motel bed, my scream yet reverberating in my throat and the sheet pasted to my sweat-soaked skin.
The clock blinked 3:07 in the morning.
The time of Jocelyn’s fall.
When even LA had been silent and quiet, no one awake to hear that scream.
“I wasn’t there,” I reminded myself. “I was at Danny’s apartment, crashed out on his couch because we’d tied one on that night.” My heart continued to thunder. “I wasn’t there.” It was a mantra I’d repeated over and over while waiting for Detective Gina Garcia to call me back to the station for an interview.
Hands shaky, I shoved off the sheet and walked into the bathroom. The compulsion to check my buried offshore account using my phone was almost overwhelming. That was my one rule: to never ever access that account using any device that could be traced back to me. Only once I’d successfully maneuvered the money through various channels would it be safe for me to touch.
Until then, it might as well be poison.
I stepped into the shower, turned the water to cold.
“Fuck.” The shock snapped me out of the last hazy pieces of the nightmare, shoving my brain from the obsessive line of thought that could land me in a prison cell. “I didn’t kill Jocelyn,” I said aloud. “I did not kill Jocelyn. I loved Jocelyn.”
But not as much as I loved Diya.
I’d never loved anyone as much as I loved Diya.
Not even Susanne.
Chapter 14
Private notes: Detective Callum Baxter (LAPD)
Date: Dec 12
Time: I-should-be-home o’clock
Perez uncovered an interesting fact about Tavish Advani—that fancy condo isn’t a rental. It’s his. Transferred to his name when he was roughly twenty-two.
Probably courtesy of the bank of Mom and Dad, but Perez is going to chase it down.
Meanwhile, I still can’t get a bead on the guy—women definitely like him, but he doesn’t strike me as the playboy type. He’s more focused, more the kind who could make one woman believe she was his everything, and that’s not exactly unusual. Henry over in Traffic marries women like it’s his job, gets bored, and moves on.
Only difference with Advani is the money involved. Is he targeting rich older women or does he just end up with rich older women because he grew up in that environment?
I need to talk to someone he actually dated. It’s not looking good—so far, he’s two for two when it comes to dead ex-girlfriends.
Chapter 15
The next day, I learned that the Rotorua Hospital ICU had a generous visiting policy.
“As long as you’re not disruptive,” the charge nurse told me, “we’re not going to kick you out. If you want to visit after the main doors are closed, ask the security guys downstairs. I’ll make sure they know you’re to be let up.” Her eyes were sympathetic.
“Can you tell me anything about my sister-in-law? Her family won’t be here till later in the day, so I’m all the family she has for now.”
I was expecting her to stonewall me, but she said, “Her father instructed that you’re to be kept updated on Shumi Prasad’s status. Honestly, she’s much the same as your wife. Since the ICU is full, she’s next door, in the Coronary Care Unit, which also functions as the ICU overflow area.
“You can go look in on her when you’re ready—it’s just through here.” She pointed to an internal hallway. “No locked door between the two units, but check in with the nursing staff when you enter so they know who you are.”
“Thank you. I’ll go visit after I spend some time with my wife.”
When I walked over to Diya, I saw that someone on the staff had placed an armchair beside her bed in an act of silent compassion. I also consciously noticed the monitors on either side of the bed and what appeared to be some kind of a mechanical arm on the ceiling.
A hoist, I guessed, to help with patients who needed to be moved. I didn’t have enough interest to ask for confirmation, Diya my sole focus.
After pulling the curtain so we’d have at least a little privacy—but making sure I didn’t block the line of sight of the monitoring nurse—I sat down in the armchair and held Diya’s hand, the intricate filigree of mehndi on it seeming even darker today.
“They say the darker a bride’s mehndi,” she’d told me, “the happier and more loved she’ll be in her marriage.”
But my bride lay broken in a space filled with the sound of mechanical breaths, the brunette nurse who watched her—whose name I’d learned was Hazel—rising every hour to record her vital signs. “Any change?” I asked each time.
The answer was the same. “No.”
Diya’s life hung in precarious balance, a fact her surgeon confirmed when she came by later that day. “How much information do you want?” she asked with a bluntness I guessed might be typical for surgeons.
“Don’t worry about detail,” I said, because the last thing I wanted to know was how many times she’d been stabbed. “I’m only interested in her overall status. We can discuss the specifics with her after she wakes.”
Nodding, the surgeon said, “Overall status is critical. The head wound worries me—we’ll be monitoring that constantly. I repaired her abdominal injuries but they were significant, so she’s not out of the woods yet. Liver and kidney injuries on their own wouldn’t put her in the ICU, but infection is always a risk.”
Each word was acid on my skin.
The only good news that day was that Shumi’s parents would be landing in Auckland early that afternoon. The Kumar clan had intended to rent a car to drive the three hours to Rotorua rather than waiting for the next flight to the city, but I’d talked them out of it.
“It’s a long drive and you’re not in the best frame of mind.” I’d driven like a maniac after being notified of Jocelyn’s death, and almost plowed straight into a concrete freeway barrier. “The last thing Shumi needs is for you to get in an accident. The closest flight to your arrival into Auckland will get you here not that much later than if you drove.”
It had been Shumi’s younger brother who’d convinced her parents I was right. “We need to be there for Shumi,” Ajay had said. “None of us are thinking straight. We shouldn’t be driving.”
Now I took Diya’s cold hand in mine, held it. “I’m here, baby,” I said in a quiet tone that wouldn’t reach Hazel. “I’ll find out what happened.” I pressed my lips to her skin, wishing I could give her the life that pumped inside my body so she’d laugh again, dance again.
My wife loved to dance, had pulled me into a dance on the sandy edge of Lake Tarawera just the other night, the only music a faint hint of a guitar being strummed somewhere along the lakefront.
Her eyes had sparkled as she looked up at me. “I never thought I’d meet my soulmate; never thought I’d get the chance to know someone like I know you. I love you, Tavi.”
No one knew me.
Susanne had come the closest, but I’d been different then. Younger, more vulnerable.
I hadn’t tried to hide myself from Diya…but I hadn’t wanted her to know about the murky corners, the places where the darkness gathered and churned. Hadn’t wanted to scare her, lose her.
“I’ll tell you everything,” I whispered to her, emotion a thick lump in my throat. “So you really will know me inside out. Just wake up. Please.” Rising, I pressed a careful kiss to the undamaged slope of her cheek, then opened up the curtains so all the nurses had an unobstructed view of their patient.
My eye snagged on the vista through the large windows behind her bed as I finished—trees bright with spring green leaves, even a glimpse of water.
Lake Rotorua.
I struggled with the disconnect—how could my young, beautiful, and talented wife lie so badly wounded in a place where sunlight slanted through the windows, while a lake lapped peacefully beyond?
“Tavish?” Hazel’s soft voice. “Are you all right?”
Turning away from the surreal view, I said, “I have to leave her for a little while. Please take care of her.”
“She’ll never be out of our sight, I promise. If I have to get up, one of my colleagues will keep their eyes on her.”
It hurt to walk away from Diya, but after that talk with Detective Ackerson, I knew I couldn’t rely on her to unearth the truth. She’d zeroed in on me. The new husband. The outsider. The man whose last two girlfriends had died in accidents that had emblazoned his name across the headlines.
Before I left, however, I looked in on Shumi. My sister-in-law seemed, to my nonmedical eye, to be in a worse state than Diya, even more tubes going out from her body, even more bandages—including one on her face.
I didn’t try to find out if that had been a stab injury, didn’t want to know.
Having already asked the ICU staff to contact me should there be a significant change in either Diya’s or Shumi’s status and received their agreement, I went outside the hospital and called a car using a rideshare app.
If I was going to figure this out, I had to start at the beginning.
“Damn,” the twentysomething driver said as he pulled up outside the gates of the Prasad property a half hour later. “Was this your place?” His faded blue eyes were huge as he looked over the steering wheel. “Sorry to hear what happened.”
Not saying anything, I got out.
The driver lingered as I crossed the street to stand in front of the crime scene tape that was a visual fence across the property. I could see a police cruiser a bit further down the drive. A couple of cops were sitting in it, but they stayed put when I made no move to step past the tape.
