Ackerson ignored my question. “Why weren’t you at what—assuming Bobby Prasad was present—seems to have been a family meeting?”
I’d been trying not to think about that, trying not to remember how the Prasads had reacted after they first learned of our elopement. Diya hadn’t even told them until we were already on the plane for the flight to Auckland, the tarmac at LAX in constant motion as planes taxied out or rolled into the gate.
Message sent, she’d shut off her phone. “Oops,” she’d said with a wink. “Guess the onboard Wi-Fi isn’t working.”
I’d walked out of biosecurity on this end to three grim faces—and Shumi’s squeal of joy as she rushed over to hug Diya. She’d been holding a sparkly balloon withCongratulationswritten on it in silver glitter, which she’d attached to Diya’s suitcase.
My new sister-in-law had managed to whisper that “the parents” were “big mad” before her husband and the elder Prasads reached me and Diya. I hadn’t needed the warning, not after glimpsing their faces, but I’d appreciated her loyalty to Diya all the same.
“Diya’s family is close,” I said today to this detective who was looking for a reason to blame the outsider. “Shumi and Bobby—or just Shumi like you said—probably dropped by to have tea or coffee and chat about the party.
“And there was so much leftover food to snack on. Containers stacked up on the counters and stuffed into the fridge.” Sarita and Rajesh had told the catering and other staff to take what they wanted, but that had still left multiple unopened boxes, so Bobby and Shumi had taken some, while the rest came home with us.
“Both my mother- and father-in-law had the whole weekendoff—available only for patient emergencies. Everyone was at home and able to relax together.”
“Except you.”
My mind wanted to torment me with thoughts of what could’ve been, what I could’ve done had I been in the house that morning. “Diya,” I said, fighting past the incipient guilt because it would just make me easy prey for this cop, “asked me to drive to a bakery in the city center to pick up a box of samples in flavors she was considering for our wedding cake.”
As we’d walked outside, she’d told me to enjoy zooming around in the Alfa Romeo—she knew I liked to break the speed limit on the winding road to and from Lake Tarawera. The view of the green-clad hills, the deep hues of the Blue and Green Lakes, even the misty fog high up in the mountains—it was nothing like LA, but I was starting to love the lush quiet of it, the lack of concrete barriers and endless hours on the freeway.
“You left your job in LA to move here?”
Heat under my skin, my muscles threatening to bunch at the abrupt change in the direction of the conversation.
No way could Ackerson know about Virna.
She’d died months before I ever saw Diya across that rooftop bar.
“I left the job before I met Diya,” I said to the detective. “I wanted a change.” The lie would stand; the firm would never air its dirty laundry, never tell Ackerson that I’d been escorted out by two security goons after Virna’s son, Jason, threw a tantrum and threatened to pull his considerable investment portfolio from the firm.
“We don’t believe the firm is a good fit for you any longer, Tavish.” A fixed smile on the white-haired senior partner’s face. “I’m afraid the situation with Virna cannot be overlooked.” The merest flicker of an eyelash. “What, my dear boy, were you thinking?”
I hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem.
Never shit where you eat, son.
Too bad I hadn’t remembered my father’s sage advice until it was far too late.
“Are you currently in employment?” Ackerson’s voice held no judgment, but I knew what she was getting at.
It took all of my skill to keep my expression even. “I’ve only been in the country five weeks—I’m in the process of figuring out what certifications I need. But I have picked up a remote job in the interim—doing stock breakdowns for a business magazine.”
Ackerson made another note. “Can I have your current address?”
Once again, I didn’t flinch at the abrupt switch in direction—Detective Callum Baxter of the LAPD had done that, too. My father had warned me that it was a way to throw off the target, make him stumble. “We live…lived with Diya’s parents.”
“Traditional setup?”
“No. Just convenience.” This cop didn’t need to know that my wife hadn’t been ready to move out—she’d lived with her parents all her life. Part of it was their overprotectiveness of their younger child, part of it Diya’s genuine love for her mother and father—and part of it the sheer beauty of their lakeside property, which had been her home since she was sixteen.
“No rental will ever live up to this,” she’d said to me with a sigh one afternoon as we stood at the end of the jetty, watching a lone paddleboarder making her way across the cool water in the shadow of Mount Tarawera.
Her arm had been tucked into mine, her head against my shoulder, her perfume a pretty thing with surprisingly dark notes beneath.
I’d looked down at the black silk of her curls. “Will you mind? Not having all this? At least not straightaway?” I had every intentionof building my wife her own personal paradise. All I needed was time…and the ability to access the money no one official had yet managed to find.
A year, perhaps even two, and we’d be set for life.IfI wasn’t impatient.
