Chapter 51
A board mounted on two thick posts stood amid the weeds in Andrea Smithy-Carr’s front yard.
Hand-painted on it were the words Justice for Rhiannon.
Below the blocky header flowed tiny writing in what looked like marker pen that had been traced over and over as it faded.
From what little I could read, it was a diatribe against the authorities for covering up the murder of her daughter.
I’d already figured out that Andrea Smithy-Carr wasn’t exactly stable, but I hadn’t realized the depth of her obsession until this instant.
But I was here now, and she was opening her front door even as I set foot on the mossy and cracked path through the grass, so she’d clearly been watching for me.
A brace covered her left leg to the knee.
“Don’t mind the grass,” she said. “The boy who cuts it has been sick this past week.”
The grass was knee height; it hadn’t been mowed for months.
Given that this seemed like a friendly neighborhood to the outside eye, I wondered if her neighbors had been put off from helping her because of her unrelenting obsession—the board, for one, was an eyesore for a street that seemed to be trying its best to keep up a certain level of appearance.
But I just nodded. “I’m Tavish.”
“Andrea.” Gait halting but stable, she invited me into the house.
The carpet was a dingy and faded beige, and the furniture had the appearance of charity shop goods, but no dust covered any of the surfaces, and—alongside the delicious smell of fresh baking—I could smell a lemony scent I associated with cleanliness.
The fireplace was empty and filled with pine cones, the mantel above it lined with trophies that had been polished to a shine.
The trophies sat alongside photos of a smiling black-haired girl.
“Rhiannon won those.” Andrea pointed at the trophies. “Swimming and dance.”
“She was talented.”
“Would’ve been on the national team if she’d been allowed to live.” Her face was hard when I glanced at her, but she said, “I made scones. I’ll put on coffee.”
“I can help. Your leg…”
She waved me down. “Almost healed now.” From the slow way she walked toward the kitchen, however, I figured that for a significant exaggeration. “Just got home from the rehabilitation unit two days ago. They bunged me in there for five days.”
At least that cleared up one small fear of mine: Andrea Smithy-Carr might be unstable, but she was physically incapable of having harmed the Prasads. “What happened to your leg?”
“Fell,” she called out from the kitchen. “Stupid little hole in the backyard. Must be a rat or something. I’ll be putting poison out, don’t you worry.”
I made noises of sympathy while thinking about that little dog.
Then, while she made the coffee—instant, it looked like from what I could see of her movements—I took careful note of the photos and trophies but found nothing in them to answer my question.
“Let me,” I said when she walked in with a tray.
Smiling, she accepted the offer. “Your mother raised you well.”
My mother didn’t raise me at all, but I knew how to play this game and gave her a gentle smile. “Those scones look great to this starving man.” She’d split them in half and put whipped cream and jam in separate little pots—she’d also provided what looked to be vintage cake plates for each of us.
At some point, I realized, Andrea had been a wholly different woman.
“Dig in,” she said after I’d placed the tray on the coffee table, her faded eyes bright all at once.
“I hardly get visitors these days after Roger buggered off with his mistress.” She sat down in an armchair, while waving me to the couch opposite.
“People think I’m a crazy lady. The neighbor kids run past my house like it’s some witch’s cabin. ”
Startled by her awareness of how she was viewed, I looked her full in the face. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you saw what no one else did—and because no one listened to you, two more innocent people are dead and another two badly wounded.”
She slammed her fist against the arm of her seat. “I knew it. He was behind the fire, wasn’t he?”
“I’m trying to prove that.” Though I hadn’t eaten anything since a quick protein bar this morning, I didn’t reach for the scones, instead holding her gaze as I said, “I want to tell you who I am, want to be honest from the start. I’m Diya’s husband.”
Her pupils expanded, but I spoke before she could.
“The police are trying to blame me for the fire even though I wasn’t anywhere near the house at the time.
They don’t want to blame rich and successful Bobby Prasad, and I’m new to the family, from outside the country.
But I know he beat his wife, and when I learned about Rhiannon, I had to talk to you—you’re the only person who might understand. ”
Andrea’s breathing was jagged now. “Of course it was him.” A whisper, as if in revelation. “His parents must’ve seen what he was at last, and he lost it on them.”
The funny thing was that she might even be right—the inciting incident could have been the fact that Rajesh and Sarita had somehow gotten wind of Bobby’s financial troubles.
Not a planned crime, but one born in the moment.
That would explain the chaos of it, and how Diya and Shumi had managed to make it out alive.
“I need to know if you’d be willing to speak to the detective in charge,” I said to Andrea after a sip of the weak but hot coffee. “She doesn’t believe me, but you’ve been saying Bobby was dangerous since day one.”
“Yes, yes. I want to show you something.” When she bustled off as fast as she could on her hobbled leg, I ate a still-warm scone I’d made up to my liking.
It actually tasted good instead of turning to dust in my mouth—because unhinged or not, Andrea would make a great witness against Bobby.
People would understand that it was a mother’s grief that had driven her to this sad facsimile of a life.
Her husband’s desertion would only intensify the sympathy.
I was eating a second scone by the time she returned with a white cardboard box. Rectangular, it was bigger than a shoebox but still clearly only big enough for documents alongside small physical items.
Sitting down across from me, she put the box on the clear part of the coffee table. “I’ve been keeping records. Just in case the day came when people finally began to pay attention. And now here you are.”
I put the half-eaten scone aside as Andrea began to take out newspaper clippings.
Some were so yellow and faded that I was scared they’d fall apart, others new enough to leave newsprint on my fingertips.
All had to do either with Rhiannon’s death, with Bobby, or—most recently—with the Lake Tarawera fire.
She’d even saved the newspaper notice of Bobby and Shumi’s wedding, and the publicly available financial reports from his company.
It was the kind of box kept by a stalker.
Nothing in it could help me, but I listened intently as she went through it piece by piece, just in case. It was dark outside and my head was pounding when she said, “Do you see? It had to be him. It’s all right here.”
“Yes,” I said, before glancing at my watch. “I’m so sorry, but I have to make the drive back to Rotorua—I don’t like to leave Diya alone too long.”
“Oh yes, that lovely girl. I have her letters, too, but not in this box. Hold on.”
Interested now, I did wait, and she soon returned with a group of letters stored neatly inside a clear plastic file folder.
“Little Diya and my Rhi were pen pals.” She smiled.
“I loved that they were doing something so old-fashioned, used to get Rhi pretty stationery for it.” A pause.
“I was so proud of my girl for being so kind to a younger child who idolized her.”
Taking out a letter, I smiled at the rounded childish writing on the first envelope, and at the stickers placed on every part of it aside from the spots for the address and stamp.
The letter inside was a single sheet full of girlish excitement about a movie that Diya was going to see with her brother and Shumi, and about how she missed Rhiannon sooooo much, and wished they could hang out together all the time.
We’d be best friends every day instead of just in the summer!
My heart ached.
Andrea took my hand, squeezed, and it wasn’t until then that I realized I was crying. “She’ll be okay,” she said, her voice trembling with years-old grief. “If there’s any justice in this world, that sweet child will be okay.”
—
I was exhausted when I arrived back in Rotorua, but I stopped by the ICU regardless. Security knew me by name at this point, even asked about Diya. When I made it to her, I wanted to believe that she looked better, had more color in her skin, but knew I was likely just seeing what I wanted to see.
Afterward, I went to check in on Shumi—the Kumars had let the staff know I had their continued permission to visit, and to be updated on my sister-in-law’s medical status.
The nurse with her—a warm woman who had been kind to me from day one—looked up from charting Shumi’s vital signs when I entered. “Hi, Tavish.”
“Hi, Maria. Any updates?”
A shake of her head. “Her poor brother asked the same—he only left two hours ago after I told him he had to get some sleep. And Mrs. Kumar can hardly bear to see her daughter like this—she was in and out for two short visits today, and looks like she isn’t eating. Such a sad situation.”
Nodding, I touched Shumi’s hand for a moment. “Hey, Shumi, it’s your favorite brother-in-law.”
The nurse continued to write on the chart. “Were you two close?”
“Never got the chance. I only came into the country a short time ago.” I took a deep breath, the medicinal air familiar by now. “Do you think they’ll remember everything when they wake up? From the day of the fire?”
She was compassionate enough not to tell me that they might never wake up. “I’m not sure. Diya did have that head trauma, and Shumi almost drowned, according to the paramedics…We’ll just have to wait and see.”
A silvery shimmer of wind chimes, a child’s laughter.
I jolted to look in every direction around us. “Did you hear that?”
“No, what?”
The night was as quiet as Ani’s breath.
“Nothing.” Heart pounding, I dug up a faded smile. “I think I need some sleep, too.”
—
I expected to spend the night haunted by ghostly wind chimes, but instead, it was another, far more familiar ghost that came to visit me.
“Joss,” I breathed out.
Breathtaking, selfish, dangerous Jocelyn Wai smiled at me, ready for her pound of flesh. “You didn’t think you got away with it, did you, my young lover? I swore I’d haunt you forever for what you did to me. It hurts when you fall that far, that fast. I felt my bones break when I hit the pavement.”