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)
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.”