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)
Diya had said something the morning of the fire. Something important. Squeezing my eyes shut, I struggled to think back to what felt like another lifetime. She’d been making me the omelet and…
I had the oddest dream last night. About our old house in Fiji. I could see the mango tree from a window—and then I was trying to dig it up using a shovel.
“Oh God.” Had she brought up Ani’s death that morning? Was that what had set everything in motion?
Wind chimes whispering down the hallway, a cold touch on the back of my neck.
I swallowed hard, my mind full of images of Rajesh’s powerful body cutting through the cold waters of the lake, Sarita putting on her jogging gear for a fast circuit.
Chapter 62
Private notes: Detective Callum Baxter (LAPD)
Date: Oct 30
Time: 11:07
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Chapter 63
After asking Ajay to keep an eye on Diya and message me if she woke and was looking for me—I still hadn’t managed to get her that phone—I left the hospital to meet Aleki at a small coffee shop by his work.
“Hey, my man.” He hugged me, a big wall of gentle, kind Samoan in a business shirt and pressed black trousers.
“Hey, Aleki. Thanks again for all you’ve done.”
“No thanks between us.” He picked up a coffee from the table. “I had our orders made to go. Gotta start walking back—still have that asshole manager who watches the clock to make sure we’re not a minute over our break time.” He took a sip of his own coffee. “You cool with walking and chatting?”
“Sure.”
“Glad to hear your missus is awake.”
It had taken me a few chats with Aleki before I’d figured out that “missus” in the local vernacular didn’t necessarily mean married, just together. “You have no idea how relieved I was when she opened her eyes.” I drank deep of the coffee—the ubiquitous Kiwi flat white, for which I’d acquired a taste after Diya introduced me to it.
Aleki slapped me on the shoulder. “I can imagine, man. So, you want to know about Violet Long, huh?”
I’d reached out to Aleki after all my online searches had come up blank—Violet Long’s business website was down, and she no longer had any social media presence. I didn’t even know if she was still in Rotorua, but I figured it was a small city, and with Aleki being around roughly the same age as her, they might’ve crossed paths. Or at the least, that he could point me in the direction of someone else who would know.
I had no intention of asking Diya for her friend’s information and bringing up that past trauma. Not here. Not now.
“My wife was close with her before the assault. I thought I’d see if I could touch base with her, see if maybe she’d want to visit with Diya.” It was a flimsy reason, but it was all I had. “She’s going to be moved out onto a ward soon.”
“It was brutal, what happened to Violet—it was in all the papers, how bad she was hurt.” He shook his head. “I don’t know her, but the papers mentioned that her dad is a plumber.”
Shit, I’d seen that in one of the articles I’d found and totally glossed over it when I’d already tracked one man down by his profession.
Aleki stopped in front of a building. “This is me. But anyway, my cuz’s mate Silas is a plumber, too, so I asked him if he knew about Violet Long’s dad.”
Digging into his pocket, he took out a piece of notebook paper on which he’d written the details of one Greg Long, Plumber & Drainlayer. “He said not to hassle Greg if he doesn’t want to talk,” Aleki said as he handed over the information. “Man’s still broken up about what happened to her—but I figured he’d be okay with you calling.”
“I promise I won’t push if he wants privacy.”
“I better go—but hope you get in touch with your missus’s friend.”
After saying good-bye to Aleki, I made the call to Greg Long. I’d have preferred to meet him in person to make my case, but he probably had no office and worked out of his van like a lot of independent tradespeople.
“Greg Long,” he said when he answered the call, his manner matter-of-fact.
Aware that he’d no doubt been hounded by reporters at one point, I said, “This is Diya Prasad’s fiancé, Tavish.” No one in Rotorua didn’t know Diya’s name by now, and Violet had likely mentioned her potential business partner to her family. “I’m trying to get in touch with your daughter. Diya’s regained consciousness and I know she misses Violet.”
I paused, but when the other man didn’t say anything, added, “No pressure at all for Violet to come see her—I just figured maybe they could chat on the phone. And honestly, I’m just trying to find something that’ll make my wife happy.” I might be a gold-standard liar, but the latter was a hundred percent true.