“Meera!” A yell from inside the house as the tractor trundled over to this side of the field. “I can’t find the other pills!”
The woman turned on her heel but pinned me with her gaze before stepping inside. “They’ll find out it was that Bobby who killed his family. They haven’t found his body, have they? That’s what it said on the news. Only signs of two people in the doctors’ house. And the boy was so angry on the inside. Poor baby Ani just got in his way and he scared Diya into staying quiet.”
She waved her hand at me. “You go now. Kamal will sleep again after his pills. Come later if you want, but he didn’t keep any papersif that’s what you’re after. Just what’s in his head, and the stubborn old goat won’t budge from the idea that it was Diya who did it.”
I rose shakily to my feet.
Was that it?
Bobby had lost it again?
Was that what Diya had been trying to tell me? That he’d done the same thing to the family that he’d done to Ani all those years ago?
Just lost it, gone psychotic.
I’d never seen the other man act the bully, but then I’d only known him a matter of weeks. Anyone could put on a mask for that long.
“Hello!” Yash called out from the seat of the tractor he’d brought to a standstill parallel to the road. “Come to see my father?” His biceps pushed against his black T-shirt, his beard short and neatly trimmed, and his smile friendly enough. “He’s in a good mood, isn’t he?” An amused laugh.
Shoving my brain back into gear, I walked over to the edge of the field so we could speak without shouting. “I’m Tavish, Diya’s fiancé.”
“Oh.” His smile faded into somber quiet as he leaned forward on the steering wheel before flowing from his first language into what was most comfortable for me. “How are they? Diya and Shumi?”
I folded my arms. “In the ICU.” It was all I could say and even that came out gritty and painful.
Dark eyes pinched at the corners, Yash just gave a clipped nod. “Cops have any idea who did it?”
“No, but your mother seems to think it was Bobby.” No filter, my brain in shock.
“Yeah, Amma might be right.” A vein pulsed at his temple. “We were in school together—Bobby and me—when they lived here.” Lifting his left arm, he showed me a small scar on his inner forearm. “He did that. Cut me with a sharp rock when I wouldn’t give him some jalebi Amma had got me from the market.”
“Everyone else seems to have a high opinion of him.”
“Ask people his own age if you want the truth. Not his friends. The others.” He put down his arm, rubbing absently at the scar with the fingers of his other hand. “He knew how to play nice for adults, too, be the perfect eldest son. No one ever believed us when we complained about him.”
“Your mother mentioned that his father was abusive.”
“Never yelled or anything that I saw, but back then, it wouldn’t have mattered.” Yash shrugged. “Doctor, you know. Big important man. Never spotted any bruises on Bobby, either, but one time I saw him crying because he’d scored ninety-seven percent instead of a hundred percent on a test.
“Not angry tears. Scared tears. A kid can tell, yaar.” He rolled therin that last word the same way I’d heard my father’s friends use it when speaking to him; the direct translation was “friend,” but used this way…maybe “bro”?
“He punched me in the mouth when he realized I’d seen him,” Yash added. “Told me he’d kill me if I told anyone else.”
“I never saw any hint of that in their adult relationship.” If anything, Dr.Rajesh Prasad had struck me as an indulgent father…but I’d only ever watched how he related to Diya—she was my wife, my priority.
“Wouldn’t know about that.” The other man sat back up. “I hope Diya and Shumi make it. Tell Shumi that Yash Dayal says hi. Always thought it a shame she fell for that bastard.”
My instincts caught more than the obvious bitterness. “Your mother seems to think she was always sweet on him.”
“Rich doctor’s son, yaar, all the girls wanted him.” A hard wave before he carried on with his tractor, and I got into my vehicle.
Despite his apparent need for rest after his pills, Kamal was back in his rocker by then, his wife beside him. Neither waved as I pulled out.
—
I finally met Kushma when she brought me lunch. A slender woman with silky hair worn in a bun whose English was broken at best, she laughed without malice at my halting attempts at Hindi but seemed pleased that I wanted to put her at ease.
“Bobby?” she said in her preferred tongue when I asked about whether she’d known him growing up. “I was too old, already married by the time he was in high school.” Despite the words, her gaze was thoughtful.
