Sarita auntie.
It felt odd to hear composed and sharp-witted Dr.Sarita Prasad being referred to as an auntie. Dr.Rajesh Prasad had no doubt been Uncle Rajesh. To simply use the first name of an elder was just not done in large quarters of the Indian community.
Even my publicly ruthless hard-ass of a father was Uncle Anand to some. My mother, by contrast,hatedbeing auntied—and it had nothing to do with different cultural expectations. “Just call me Audrey,” she’d said to my paternal cousin when he’d been only seven. “ ‘Auntie’ makes me feel soold.”
That was the one thing Audrey Advani couldn’t bear: the march of time, the relentless wrinkles of age. My mother would probably have a standing appointment for Botox injections if she didn’t understand that a great actress needed a face capable of a subtle and intense range of motion. So instead, she got fillers and wore makeup with religious fervor.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her naked face.
“I guess you and Diya haven’t had time to talk about everything,” Ajay was saying.
Memories unraveled inside me, an endless photo-booth strip, preserved in cerebral celluloid forever. We’d spent hours night after night murmuring chapter after chapter of our stories to each other until one of us finally couldn’t fight sleep any longer. We’d been in a hurry to catch up on all the years that had gone before we walked into each other’s lives.
But…eleven weeks wasn’t enough to share an entire lifetime’s worth of memories. And some secrets we’d both kept. The knot in my abdomen was proof of that. As were the brown plastic bottles that had melted in the fire. I’d never asked and she’d never told, but I’d looked up the drugs, gone down the list of possible reasons why they might’ve been prescribed.
Anxiety.
Depression.
Intrusive thoughts.
Hallucinations.
Schizophrenia.
Bipolar disorder.
Psychosis.
Did Ackerson know about those medicines? Would she attempt to pin the blame for the murders and the fire on my beautiful, luminous star of a wife?
My tendons twisted, tight enough to snap.
“Tavish?”
“No,” I said to Ajay’s quiet query, forcing my voice into calm. “We were still learning each other, and now…”
The other man’s eyes grew glassy. “Yeah.” Coughing, he looked away and took a deep breath. “Anyway, Ani was Diya and Bobby’s adopted sister.”
My stomach dropped. This wasn’t a random memory Diya had forgotten to mention; it was a core facet of her identity.
Chapter 18
Private notes: Detective Callum Baxter (LAPD)
Date: Dec 19
Time: 11:08
Second interview with Tavish Advani was more frustrating. He came with his lawyer, who happens to be his father—Anand fucking Advani. Same Anand Advani who got Celia Byers off for the murder of her married lover. Woman was covered in blood and had the gun in her hand. Jesus.
Tavish didn’t say much during the interview, with Anand blocking most of our questions. We couldn’t hold him. Have nothing on him. Can’t actually blame the man for shutting up—Jason Musgrave’s poisoned the well there with how he’s been shooting his mouth off in the media.
At least the journalists have the good sense not to leak Tavish’s name—no proof, but I’d say they probably got their hands slapped by their bosses after Advani senior threatened them with a lawsuit if they crossed that line. Not that it matters; the implications are all there in the headlines—especially now that they’ve dug up his connection to Jocelyn Wai.
Gina Garcia’s still on leave, so I’ll have to wait a bit longer to get further background on that case.
And still no word on where all his money is going.
