Chapter 25
Darla gets a phone call and gestures for us to leave.
I do have some lingering questions, such as: Why is she distancing herself from Green World?
Is it because she’s working at Catalyst?
And why is she hiding? As we walk out of the house, I can’t help but feel a little more hope about everything.
Even if the police aren’t willing to investigate matters of their own accord, our handing them leads will have to make them get their heads out of their asses.
And despite my lingering questions, I don’t want to be at Darla’s house longer than necessary. I want her to mourn in peace without the prying questions of strangers.
“I don’t think she could have done it,” I say, thinking of the sadness etched on her face.
I remember how hard it was to keep it together in the days after my brother died.
Maybe I am trying to draw parallels between myself and Darla that do not exist, but I can’t believe she would kill her own brother for his money.
Money is a powerful motive, but Darla seems like a genuinely good person who cares deeply about the world around her.
As for means and opportunity, I’m brought back to how difficult it would be to murder someone in a locked and moving taxi. Even so, someone did it.
The way Amaya looks at me, with skepticism and slight annoyance, tells me I’m still the most obvious suspect in her book, and with good reason. I don’t understand how my DNA could be on the murder weapon.
“If she was guilty, would she tell us she had a motive to kill him? Seems kinda crazy. I think she wants us to find who really did it.”
We are walking back to the ferry when Amaya’s stomach grumbles loudly. She gives me a sheepish look.
“Do you want to eat something?” I ask.
“We should just go back home,” Amaya says, although I don’t think she means it. I remember how grumpy not eating makes me.
“You know, we are on Staten Island…”
“Yes?” She looks at me like one of those people at the beginning of a Snickers commercial—about to wreak absolute havoc until she’s eaten something.
“It’s home to multiple Sri Lankan restaurants. Delicious Sri Lankan restaurants.”
As if on cue, my stomach growls.
“I guess some fuel before we go speak to Charlie Hall wouldn’t hurt,” she responds, a small smile on her face that she’s poorly hiding with a scowl. “But we gotta make it quick.”
I’m already thinking of the richly scented curries and fragrant flavors. I know dinner will be awkward since Amaya thinks she’s sitting next to a possible murderer, but we don’t have to talk; we just have to eat—a social situation I usually prefer anyway.
The restaurant is only a short five-minute walk, all with a view of the beautiful Manhattan skyline from Staten Island.
“And we’ve arrived!” Amaya says, sounding less sour than just a few minutes earlier.
We enter the restaurant. Beautiful masks line the walls.
The raksha masks are vibrantly colored with big googly eyes.
Often a tongue snakes out of a sinister smile.
The masks, in their sneering and garish vibrance, scared me as a child.
My parents insisted on putting them throughout the house, which only served to frighten me half to death when I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.
My mother promised me that they were there to ward off evil and that the masks were agents of good that protected us from dark forces.
I believed that tale for a long time. Now the masks are sitting in my room, collecting dust in the back of my closet, after being ripped violently off the wall the day my brother died.
“This place is amazing,” Amaya says.
Her body relaxes just a little. We rarely see our home country represented anywhere.
I’ve only been to this place once, having the rare occasion to drop passengers off in Staten Island in years past. I rarely frequent places my driving doesn’t usually take me—I can’t afford the “wasted” gas.
After we are seated, I open the menu and am greeted with a list of familiar favorites.
Most people assume that because Sri Lanka is so close to India, the food must be similar.
Looking at the carbohydrate options alone, you’d know this isn’t true.
In Indian cooking, rice and naan are common.
Poori, a fried dough, or roti, a rolled dough cooked in a skillet, are also the norm.
In Sri Lankan cooking, there are completely different options.
My personal favorites are hoppers, a crispy bowl-shaped crepe; pittu, a rice flour and coconut dish eaten with curries; and a string hopper, a network of rice noodles bound together like a spider’s web.
At the present moment, my mouth is salivating with the smell from the kitchen. I want it all.
“What do you think the numbers in the wallet mean?” Amaya asks me as we wait for our order.
Her mood seems to have improved at the promise of food, and at the glass of wine she’s already made significant headway through.
“I think it must be a locker combination and maybe a locker number? The NYCRC means nothing to me. It’s New York City, obviously, but what?
Nothing helpful comes up when I google it.
Finding a locker in the city will be like finding a needle in a haystack,” I reply as the waiter sets down cold coconut water for me, a common beverage native to Sri Lanka.
I couldn’t believe it when it started to become trendy here and health food stores sold a small bottle of it for eight dollars.
“And the company going public?” Amaya asks. “I’m trying to decide if that’s important.”
The more questions she asks, the more I wonder if she thinks I may not have done it.
“I can’t imagine the owner of the company would want any hitches before it went public.
I bet James’s death actually had a negative effect.
Yet another reason that suggests Brett Ryan wasn’t involved,” I say.
Thinking about Brett’s sad and handsome face with those chiseled cheekbones, asking me why I had killed his friend, starts to make me lose my appetite.
“It is a motive for the sister. Ten million bucks is a lot of money and could save a lot of trees and animals,” Amaya adds.
“Sex and money. The two main motives for murder.” That’s what my podcasts have taught me.
“I just wish I could have asked a few more questions.” Back to true crime rule number six: Always keep the suspect or witness talking.
Darla made that difficult once she began to shoo us out of her house.
We couldn’t force her to speak more with us. We aren’t the police.
Amaya looks up at me, and I brace myself to be chided for once again asking questions out of turn.
“Sounds like you’re becoming a real investigator.
I’m not sure how the DNA ended up on the knife.
Am I an idiot for believing you? For believing you didn’t do it?
” Amaya crosses her eyes and looks as if she’s questioning her own sanity.
I see she’s surreptitiously ordered another glass of wine and has almost finished that one too.
I don’t answer the question. Anyone else wouldn’t believe me, let alone agree to eat dinner with me.
“But…I believe you,” she announces. “Please don’t make me regret that.”
“Thank you.” I say a silent prayer of thanks to this restaurant, and especially the booze, for easing tensions. “I promise you, I’m innocent.”
A long pause ensues.
“Anyways, I guess we’ll have to see what Charlie has to say for himself,” Amaya concludes.
At this moment, the plates of curry arrive at our table.
The chicken curry immediately hits me with a wave of familiarity.
It smells just like my ammi’s. We’ve over-ordered, an indulgence that I only participate in with Alex, because he almost always pays the astronomical bill.
I always offer to pay and on multiple occasions have hidden cash in Alex’s house to feel as if I’m not a complete mooch, but Alex’s love language is gifts.
As money has gotten tighter in our household, the gifts of fancy foods and nice wines that Ammi adores but would never buy herself have become plentiful.
When I confronted Alex about it, he just shrugged and said it’s long-owed rent for the many nights he spent at my house and all the free food Ammi has fed him over the years.
My heart swells at remembering a night from just a few weeks ago when the four of us—Ammi, Thathi, Alex, and I—had played cards while eating and drinking the fanciest wine and cheeses.
For a brief moment, on nights like those, my troubles seem far away.
I think about what Alex would do if he were wrongly accused of murder. He’d get the best lawyers and the best investigators to fight his case. Money isn’t everything, but it sure is important when you never have enough.
“My friend Alex may know something about New Frontier or even Green World. He’s in the tech industry. I should have thought of him sooner. I can call him,” I offer.
“The same Alex who helped bail you out?”
“Yes, that’s him. My best friend.”
Amaya grabs some curry with her fingers. I think of Ammi chastising Thathi for the same behavior, and it makes me feel sad. My parents desperately wanted to fit into their new country, afraid of the consequences if they did not.
I tuck into my food, and the magic of the hopper covered in the coconut sambol distracts me from my worries, if only in this instant.
I take the ala kirihothi, roughly translated to “potatoes in turmeric-spiced coconut milk,” a comforting classic for me, and pour it over hot rice.
The first bite sends a tingle of warmth and comfort throughout my body.
We asked for the food medium spicy—which, to quote Alex, is still “butt burning.”
We sit in silence as we continue to scarf the food down, not because we don’t want to talk, but because we’re too busy eating and occasionally smacking our lips in satisfaction.
Noisy eating in Sri Lankan culture isn’t a mark of rudeness like it is in the United States; it’s a sign of a well-cooked meal.
I’ve somehow managed to spill on myself not once, but twice, and I’m pretty sure I’ve also ruined this white tablecloth.
Getting turmeric out of anything is a fool’s errand.
Despite everything, for the first time in a long time, I feel okay—at least in this moment. It’s a reminder to me how comforting a belly full of good food accompanied by good company can be.