“What?” I blinked. “No, I—” A sudden memory flash, of something Diya’s father had said that morning. “Maybe fuel for the boat? I think Diya’s dad said he’d asked Bobby to pick some up when he next came over—it’d usually be stored in the boathouse, I think, but could be Bobby just left it in the house or on the patio when they arrived?”
“Who’s Bobby?”
Another snag in the turntable of my brain, another long pause as I dug up the information. “Diya’s brother. Everyone calls him Bobby.” I hadn’t even known it wasn’t his real name until the second time I’d met him. “His legal name is Vihaan. I don’t know where ‘Bobby’ comes from.” Probably some childhood thing no one had thought to explain to me.
The cop made another note before taking a deep breath. “It isn’t safe for the scene-of-crime officers to go in yet,” she said. “The fire was significant and the fire crews want to be certain there aren’t any lingering hot spots.” She exhaled. “However, they are fairly certain they’ve come across the remains of at least two individuals.”
Ice over my skin, I staggered against the wall, one hand braced on the cold surface.Which two?“Did you check with the hospital? Both of Diya’s parents work as doctors here sometimes, even though they have their own clinic.” I didn’t know the system in New Zealand, had no idea if my in-laws were regular consultants or were called in on special cases. “Doctors Rajesh and Sarita Prasad.”
“We’ve checked with the clinic, and the doctors would have beenalerted by other staff by now if they were in the hospital—but I’ll double-check.” Another note in the little book. “Officers have also been to Bobby and Shumi Prasad’s residence and received no answer to their knocks—and there are no signs of anyone being home. Is it possible your brother-in-law wasn’t at the Lake Tarawera house?”
“No. His SUV was there and Shumi doesn’t drive.”
A raised eyebrow. “She has her full license and a late-model Audi registered under her name. Are you sure she doesn’t drive?”
“I—” Frowning, I shook my head. “No, I haven’t known her very long.” Only a month and a bit since I’d landed in the country, hardly enough time to draw firm conclusions about any of the Prasads. “Bobby always gives her lifts, so I assumed.”
“Did he mention plans to be anywhere today?”
“He didn’t say anything last night.”
“Last night?”
“The Prasads threw Diya and me an engagement party.” It seemed surreal now, the echoes of our laughter and the memories of the women’s fancy lehengas and gowns some Daliesque nightmare.
Broken, melting…burned.
“I thought you said you were already married.”
“Diya’s parents said that, culturally, our Vegas ceremony only counted as an engagement because we hadn’t yet had a religious ceremony. They asked us not to refer to each other as husband and wife in public for now.”
“So there was tension about your marriage?” A question asked in a voice so gentle that it almost slipped past my guard.Almost.
“Diya’s the baby of the family. They couldn’t stay mad at her.” The tremor in my voice was real, my love for Diya the purest thing I’d ever felt. “Especially after we agreed to the Hindu ceremony.” I squeezed my eyes tight, my breath feeling as if it was stuck in my lungs.
“How did you feel about not being able to call her your wife in public?”
“Diya’s an event planner.” Never happier than when she was bringing a client’s vision to life, whether that was a sixtieth birthday party or a corporate awards night. “She was buzzing to plan the wedding of her dreams.” Her parents had all but written her a blank check. “I was happy to go along with it for her—the only thing I cared about was that she was mine.”
I held the detective’s cool gray eyes. “Sarita and Rajesh hired out this fancy hotel ballroom for the engagement party, and Shumi’s a good seamstress—she managed to turn Diya’s store-bought outfit into a custom fit when Diya couldn’t get an alteration appointment at short notice.” Peacock blue and vibrant green, with splashes of pink and details in gold, the lehenga had made Diya appear a goddess.
Diya’s dad and brother and I had worn black sherwani suits with their narrow mandarin collars and tunic-style tops, while her mother had donned an elegant sari of gold silk. Shumi, meanwhile, had dressed up in a pink lehenga with gold detailing. The two best friends had coordinated the entire family’s outfits, so that the photos would be perfect.
Shumi and Bobby had gifted Diya a delicate hair decoration of twenty-two-karat gold that ran along her part, with the small pendant sitting just below the top of her forehead. Diya had told me it was called a maang tikka. Her earrings and bangles had been gifts from her parents, with more jewelry to come prior to the wedding.
“An Indian bride must wear her weight in gold or the foundations of her family will crumble,” Diya had joked as she showed me the heavy gold bangles, but her smile had been soft with affection. “My mother wore these at her own wedding.”
A tender look aimed at me. “One day, our daughter might wear these.”
“It was a great night,” I said, wanting only to see her again, hold her again; she was the repository of all my dreams, all my hopes. “The party went on past midnight—everyone was in a wonderful mood.”
“Her brother, too?” A pointed question. “What did he think of you eloping with his sister?”
“He wasn’t a fan at first,” I said, because there was no point in lying to the cops about something they could easily disprove. “But last night he invited me to join him and his friends on a fishing trip.” I’d been so relieved at the sign that he was warming up to me that saying no hadn’t been an option, even though the idea of hooking a fish on a line made me vaguely uneasy.
My idea of time on boats was sipping champagne on a yacht.
“He was laughing and saying we’d shoot the shit, drink beers, and buy snapper from the fish shop on the way home and pretend we’d caught it. Shit. Fuck.” I slid down the wall to sit with my hands thrust into my hair. “We were all so happy. I don’t understand.”
