Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
They’d worked hard to gain the right to practice here.
“What about the cars? Can I get access to one of them?” They were likely damaged from shrapnel sent out by the explosion, or just from proximity to the heat, but hopefully at least one was still in working order.
“The entire property is off-limits for the time being. If you need funds, I can get—”
“No, I have my cards on me.” Diya had bought me my sleek black wallet as a gift, even had it monogrammed with my initials in a muted bronze that suited me far better than gold or silver. “When…when will you know anything?”
“It’s a big scene, a lot to process. It’s going to be a while.” She passed a slightly crumpled card to me. “My contact information.”
After accepting it, I thought of what Diya would want me to do. “The funerals?” My mouth was dry, my hands a second away from trembling. I had no idea how to organize one funeral, much less two and possibly three.
“Don’t plan anything yet. There’s no guarantee when the remains will be released.”
Remains, not bodies.
I just nodded, grateful that Shumi’s parents were flying over. They’d know what to do for the Prasads, the rituals that were to be followed. My in-laws hadn’t been heavily religious, but I’d seen a small prayer alcove in the house, caught the distinctive scent of incense two or three mornings a week.
Their faith had mattered to them.
“Wishing your wife and your sister-in-law a fast recovery,” Ackerson said, the rote words sounding rehearsed and stiff.
I thanked her regardless, because right now, she was my only way into the investigation.
She paused before leaving. “Keep me informed of your movements, Tavish. I don’t want to waste time chasing you down.”
My pulse accelerated at what had sounded very much like a subtle threat, but, well-versed in dealing with cops, I just nodded again and stood slumped against the wall for long minutes after she’d left. It was clear that Ackerson considered me a suspect. She didn’t need to have any information from the LA cops.
All it would’ve taken was a simple online search.
The name Tavish Advani had been splashed all over the news and gossip sites three and a half years ago, when Jocelyn fell from her luxury apartment on the ninth floor, her body a shattered doll on the pavement.
Jocelyn Wai’s Boy Toy Lover Taken in for Questioning!
Did She Fall or Was She PUSHED?
Model, Philanthropist, Socialite…Murder Victim?
Accusations and insinuations like that tended to stick. Especially after they’d been raked up again in the wake of Virna’s accident.
If I didn’t get my head on straight, figure things out, Ackerson might railroad me right back into a nightmare I’d barely escaped. One of the first things I planned to do was call my father and ask him for the contact of a good local criminal defense attorney. Just in case.
“Mr. Advani?”
I jerked at the sound of the nurse’s voice; it was the same nurse who’d found an answer for me when I’d asked if Diya was still in surgery. That he’d tracked me down outside the ward had my heart thumping.
“Is my wife out of surgery?”
“Yes.” He held up a hand when I would’ve rushed past. “But you have to be prepared—she’s in a critical state.”
“I understand.” Happy to get even a glimpse of Diya, I followed the nurse upstairs. The woman with the unread book was gone from the waiting area, but the couple was still there; they offered me small, tired smiles when I passed by—and I realized they must’ve told the nurse I’d gone downstairs with the police.
“Thank you,” I mouthed to them before we turned left to close the short distance to the ICU.
It was easy to find my wife once I was through the doors; the three patient beds I could see were placed in a generous space directly in front of the nurses’ station—from where the staff could keep a constant eye on them and intervene at a second’s notice. However, that was the secondary level of care—the first would come, I saw, from the nurses seated at the small stations directly in front of the beds.
One nurse to one patient.
The seats and desks for the assigned nurses were higher than the beds, so they could easily monitor their patients.
Each bed also had a curtain that could be pulled fully around it for privacy—as long as the nurses never lost their line of sight.
Only Diya’s curtains were pushed all the way back right now.
And Diya, my Diya, looked so small and pale, far too many lines going out of her, far too many machines surrounding her. The intricate mehndi of which she’d been so proud stood out stark and dark, almost as if it was hovering above her skin…but for the spots marred by white strips of plaster to hold various lines in place.