Chapter 7
“Is this Tavish Advani?” a male voice demanded.
“Yes, sir.” One hand clenched tight on my knee, I somehow managed to keep my voice steady as I told this stranger that his daughter was in the hospital with severe stab wounds and that her husband and parents-in-law were most likely dead as a result of a catastrophic house fire.
“Is this some type of prank?” Shumi’s father’s voice rose. “What kind of sick bastard are you?”
“I wish it was a prank.” I stared at the hard-wearing carpet on the floor of the waiting area. “The fire’s made the news, so you can look it up online, or just call the police here. They’ll confirm. I’m really sorry, sir.”
It was easy to default to formal politeness, keep this small distance between us so that his anger and grief didn’t mingle with my own to leave me locked in a state of panic.
“Diya and Shumi are both here, at Rotorua Hospital. They won’t tell me anything about Shumi because I’m just her brother-in-law. ”
I wasn’t surprised when he hung up on me. He’d be checking the news, calling the cops, trying to prove to himself that I was just some dickhead getting my rocks off by making up this horrible story.
I was still staring unseeing at the floor when he called back a bare ten minutes later, and this time, his voice was rough and unsteady.
“I spoke to the police. We’ll be on the first flight back that we can get on.
Ajay—my son—is trying to find seats now.
What ward of the hospital should I call?
The officer I spoke to didn’t have the information at hand. ”
After I told him, he said, “Thank you, Tavish. I apologize for—”
“There’s no need,” I interrupted. “This is a nightmare. Just take care of your family and get here soon. Shumi will need you.”
“Yes, I’ll message you our flight details as soon as we confirm them.” A pause. “You’re alone there, aren’t you, beta?” Concern, care in the term used for younger members of the family. “Your family’s in the States?”
“Yes.” I had one casual friend, a guy I’d met at the local rock-climbing club, but I’d only managed to get to four meetings so far, so even he was more acquaintance than friend, if I was being honest.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any contacts in Rotorua these days that I can ask to help you,” Shumi’s father said.
“We’re based in Christchurch, but we’ll be there as soon as we can.
Until then, I’m sure Rajesh and Sarita must have colleagues who’d be more than willing to help—you know how to get in touch with them? ”
“Yes, I have the contact details of their clinic.”
The waiting area rang with silence after we ended the call. I was the only person taking up space then and for at least an hour following. A couple arrived at that point, and we all ignored one another with the dull compassion of people lost in our own worry.
Two nurses walked past, their heads bent over some paperwork.
A woman around my own age came through the doors from the stairs two hundred and three breaths later.
Taking a seat, she opened up a paperback with the tired ease of a person who’d been here before, sat this vigil.
Only…she didn’t turn the page, not the entire time she sat there, the open book a mere prop.
I stopped a passing member of staff an endless time later to ask if they could find out if Diya was still in surgery. He returned only two minutes later with confirmation and “No other news yet, I’m sorry.” In his eyes was the knowledge of tragedy.
“Thank you for checking.”
“One of us will come find you as soon as she’s with us,” he said, before returning to the ICU.
Unable to sit in the waiting area any longer but not wanting to be far from my wife, I drank from the water fountain, then began to pace the hallway that led to the Medical Unit.
It murmured with the soft hush of the nurses’ footwear, broken up with the intermittent beeps emitted by various machines inside patient rooms. Laughter sounded at one point, coming from some distant corner.
The wind chime ringtone sounded again, melancholy and quiet and disturbing in a way that had nothing to do with the sound itself.
Shaking off the chill that rippled up my spine, I walked away from the direction of the noise. When my phone buzzed with an incoming message a minute later, I didn’t know who I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t Aleki, my rock-climbing buddy.
Hey Tav, just heard the news. You okay, man? They aren’t releasing much info, but I figured there can’t be two other Dr. Prasads in one family out on Lake Tarawera. I know you’re living out there. Just message me back so I know you and your wife are okay.
I stared numbly at the message, my brain not working quite right. Then a nurse walked by, and the movement snapped me out of my frozen state.
Thanks, Aleki. I’m at the hospital with Diya and our sister-in-law. I’m fine but they’re hurt. It took everything I had to even write the latter—to explain that they’d both been stabbed was beyond me.
The other man replied at once: I’m so sorry, mate. Is there anything I can do? Just say the word. I know you don’t have any of your family in the country, but I’ve got a big aiga that’ll step up. Just tell us what you need, bro.
The kindness of his offer closed up my throat. I don’t have any clothes. Do you think you can pick me up a couple of T-shirts? I can pay you back. Thanks to that kid, Joseph, and his forward thinking.
Don’t worry about paying me back, Aleki wrote. I’ll go do it now. And—I’ve only got a bedroom in a flat, but you’re welcome to crash on our couch if you need it. If you want more privacy, I can ask around—someone will have a room for you.
This was the first time I’d truly felt that I was in a much smaller town than the glittering metropolis I’d left behind. I couldn’t imagine a casual gym buddy in LA reaching out with this much help. Thanks Aleki.
I was on my hundredth—two hundredth?—circuit of the hallway when I turned to see police officers near the waiting area.
One in uniform, one out of it. Uniform was an Asian man in his mid-twenties, the one in plain clothes an older woman with her salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a bun, her skin the kind of pale that has a pink undertone.
Navy blue suit, sensible black shoes, tall for a woman.
The two spotted me at the same time, began to head my way. Ignoring the dull curiosity of the three other people who waited for news about their own loved ones, I quickly picked up my pace to meet the cops halfway.
“The rest of the family?” I asked before they could say anything. “Did anyone else—”
“Let’s move a little farther down for privacy,” the woman said, and this close, I could see both the fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, and the way the suit fit her. Mid-fifties, but fit and toned. Probably a runner, given the type of sports watch she wore on her left wrist.
Once we were far enough from the waiting area that no one could overhear us, she said, “I’m sorry, but the only survivors we’ve located are Diya and Shumi Prasad. Do I have it correct that Diya is your fiancée and Shumi her sister-in-law?”
I shook my head, the movement jerky. My bones didn’t seem connected, all fluid and out of sync. “Diya’s my wife. We eloped. Vegas wedding. Elvis presiding.” It came out in staccato pieces, snapshots of the night that had changed my life forever.
Garish plastic flowers, diamante-studded white leather, a grinning middle-aged man who swiveled his hips to the tinny music piped through the sound system…
and Diya laughing as she clutched a bouquet of real flowers.
We’d run out under a rain of rose petals for which I’d paid a premium, pieces of floral-scented heaven that Diya had picked out of my hair later.
“I apologize.” A tiny frown between her eyebrows, the detective made a note in the small spiral-bound notebook she’d pulled from her jacket pocket.
“Who…” I coughed, cleared my throat. “Who else was in the house?” It was possible that one of Diya’s parents had been called to the hospital or their clinic, or that Bobby had dropped Shumi off and…what?
His SUV had been there.
If he’d gone for a walk around the lake, he’d have seen the fire, come running.
I was reaching, grasping for any hint of hope.
The fine lines at the corners of the detective’s eyes deepened to tiny valleys. “It’s hard to tell due to the explosion. Do you know if there were accelerants in the house? Gas bottles for the barbecue?”
“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. ”