Quiet in Her Bones

by Singh, Nalini

  Maybe I should snap a shot of her fudge with my books, I thought with a grin, give her a boost. But my smile faded as I carried on through Alice’s feed, my mother aging backward with each scroll. Then the images of her came to a halt without warning and I couldn’t understand ­it … until I realized that Alice had moved into the Cul-­de-­Sac when I was thirteen. She hadn’t known Nina Rai before that date.

  My head was stuffy, my eyes gritty from staring at the screen, and I had nothing except confirmation of a broken leg.

  Getting up, I saw that darkness was falling. A pile of fudge wrappers sat beside my computer. Once again, I’d lost hours of time, but at least this loss was explicable. I’d become lost in the life of the boy I’d once been and the beautiful, broken woman who’d been my mother.

  Hemi pulled into his drive, his headlights cutting through the falling gloom.

  I couldn’t stop thinking of the rage that had twisted up his face when he spoke of my mother. Hemi Henare, model citizen and devoted husband, was fully capable of murder. And if my mother had been intoxicated and ­injured—­because I wasn’t sure I believed my father when he said it had been a flesh ­wound—­then she’d have been an easy target.

  Just nudge her into the passenger seat, get in the driver’s seat, and go.

  Another movement. Adrian, coming out of the Dixons’ home with a container of something in hand. He was grinning as he spoke to Paul, who stood in the doorway. The ex-­rocker loved baking and had probably given Adrian cookies. I wondered if the fitness fanatic would eat them, or if he’d pawn them off. With everything else, I’d almost forgotten about him.

  I still didn’t know how he’d afforded his gym.

  I could’ve asked my father to use his contacts to find out, but I had no desire to be indebted to Ishaan Rai in any way, shape, or form.

  Adrian moved with the fluid athleticism of a man who’d always been fit. He’d have had no trouble running back to retrieve his vehicle if he was the one who’d murdered my ­mother—­and even had the gates been shut, I was guessing Adrian had a remote; the man had too many connections in the Cul-­de-­Sac not to have managed to finagle that. Today, his sporty SUV passed Isaac’s car on the way out.

  My brain skittered again, reminding me that I still hadn’t seen Phil.

  Where was Isaac’s father? Had he seen something that night? Was that why Isaac was keeping him prisoner?

  A knock on the open door of my room. “Aarav? You’ll come down for dinner?”

  I went to say yes to Shanti when I felt a throb at the back of my head, along with the sudden taste of metal in my mouth. “I might lie down for a while. Headache.”

  Teeth sinking into her lower lip, she rubbed her hands together. “Should I call the doctor?”

  “No. I’ll be fine after a nap.”

  The pain pressed down on the back of my head as the world shimmered. I barely heard Shanti say something in her gentle voice before she pulled the door shut. Stumbling to my bed, I lay ­down … and the lights went out.

  55

  I woke to an aching shoulder and the awareness of discomfort.

  Groaning, I opened my eyes. My mouth felt fuzzy and dry, my eyes crusty. I grabbed the bottle of water on the bedside table and slugged down half of it before I tried to look at my phone. It was 10 p.m. I’d slept for four hours straight.

  Not normal.

  But the blinking lights were gone from in front of my eyes, and my head felt piercingly clear. Getting up, I used the bathroom, then turned on the lights but didn’t bother to close the curtains.

  The first thing I did was go hunting for food. I was starving. I could hear the TV from the secondary lounge Shanti used to watch her soap operas, and I tried to walk as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her. A covered plate sat on the kitchen counter, along with extra food Shanti hadn’t yet put away in the fridge.

  She’d made tandoori roast chicken, with a side of potatoes and sautéed vegetables. Of course, since it was Shanti, she’d added paprika and who knew what else to the veges, and the potatoes were ­skillet-­fried with onions and chili peppers.

  Mouth watering, I piled more onto my plate before heating it up.

  Rather than risking a trip upstairs, I sat at the counter and chowed down. When I heard light feet behind me, I smiled. “Busted.”

  My little sister grinned before whispering, “Where’s Mum?”

  “In her lounge.”

  Tiptoeing to the cookie jar, Pari took out two ­chocolate-­chip raisin cookies.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “I’m reading a really good book.”

  Painful as it was to admit, the genetic love for reading seemed to have come via the Rai side of the family. “Yeah? What’s it about?”

  She told me as she poured milk into a mug, then heated it up in the microwave. “Don’t tell Mum you saw me,” she said as she readied herself to head back to her room.

  “See who?” I looked around the kitchen. “All I see is an empty kitchen.”

  We both heard the garage door start to rise.

  “Go,” I said to my sister, whose smile was already fading. “Make sure you hide your torch under the blankets.” It was highly unlikely our father would check up on her, but that was no reason to chance ruining her night. “Tell me the end of the book tomorrow.”

  Another grin before she moved off.

  I put my head down and focused on finishing my food. All I needed right now, while things were still so confused in my head, was to come face-­to-­face with my father. Fate took mercy on me. He went straight to his bedroom, probably to change.

  Good, that meant I could have dessert in peace. I’d spotted kheer in one of the dishes of leftovers. Shanti had put plump raisins and slices of almond in the sweet rice pudding, and I cleaned out the bowl before heading upstairs.

  Only then did I realize I’d forgotten to grab a Coke. I’d just have to tough it out.

  I should’ve had a bar fridge put in my private living area, but it was too late for that ­now—­I wasn’t planning on hanging around here much longer. If need be, I’d hire a nurse, make them sign a nondisclosure agreement, and have them watch me to ensure I didn’t do something stupid, like set my apartment on fire.

  Today, however, my brain felt sharp as a razor.

  But I had nowhere to go, no leads to follow. Maybe I’d do a good deed and scout around Isaac’s property. It was weird his father had disappeared. But Isaac stayed up half the night, so my excursion would have to wait.

  Come to think of it, had I seen Mellie since the day she’d snuck out of the Dixons’ place?

  Frowning, I made a mental note to check on her status with Paul and Margaret. But I couldn’t forget the expression I’d caught on the rock couple’s faces in front of Alice’s home, that exquisite hunger at the proximity to violence.

  “Not sure they can be trusted,” I muttered under my breath.

  I could call Neri, but she’d give me nothing. Maybe if I’d worked on her ­earlier … No, she’d never been the nut that would crack.

  The Henare home had gone dark for the night, but Veda and Brett were still awake, their windows ablaze with light. There was something up with those two. Otherwise why would Veda have made it a point to tell me she’d been out of town on the night in question?

  A hidden message?

  Hmm, I’d have to think about it.

  In the end, I lowered the lights, sat down, and began to work on my book. But my mind wasn’t interested in fictional murder; it wanted answers to the one that haunted me. Giving in, I closed the file and opened up my browser. With nowhere else to look, I began to trawl through the social media profiles I hadn’t checked earlier. Riki’s was private and Diana’s kids were too young to have posted anything interesting.

  I frowned, reminded of my idea of tracing Sarah, building a bridge between her and Diana. Since I had nothing better to do until the Cul-­de-­Sac went to sleep, and this was a worthy project, I put her name into the search eng
ine: Sarah Teague.

  I knew Diana’s maiden name because I’d seen her certificates from medical school, and my ­name-­collecting brain had a ­hundred-­percent recall rate. She used to have the certificates on the photo board by the television. I wondered if they were still there, buried behind an entirely different ­life—­or if she’d put them in her private home study.

  Unfortunately, “Sarah Teague” brought up a ton of listings, but researching the esoteric was a skill I’d honed as a writer, so I pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and got to work whittling it down. The first step was to limit the search to New Zealand, since Diana had confirmed Sarah still lived here.

  I then excluded anyone over and under a certain age range, but kept it a little wide, because things weren’t always indexed precisely.

  Better, but still messy.

  “You’re an idiot, Aarav.” Wanting to slap myself, I went straight to Mia’s social media page, and began to click through her prodigious list of friends. Her page was semiprivate, but she’d friended me a while ago. I’d accepted because I barely posted on my private profile; there was no chance of her seeing anything inappropriate.

  I found one “Sarah” among her friends, but she was a girl of the same age as Mia.

  Not truly surprised, since Sarah was doing everything she could to stay under Diana’s radar, I switched to Beau’s page. He’d linked up with me a year before his sister. Lots of posts about music, but no Sarah Teague among his contacts, nor anyone who looked like Diana’s sister.

  I went back to my search results. Diana had said Sarah wasn’t yet married, so I didn’t have to worry about a name ­change—­unless Sarah had changed her name to further distance herself from Diana. In which case, I was sunk. But leaving aside that ­worst-­case scenario, what else did I know?

  She lived in a town in the South Island. She had a senior position in an insurance company. She’d been older than me when she ­left—­an adult to my eyes, but a hot young adult. Couldn’t have been more than nineteen, twenty, which would put her at ­thirty-­two or so today. She’d also gone on a cruise last year to ­Venice—­and she hadn’t gone alone.

  Bingo.

  Even if she was one of those people who eschewed social media, someone else would’ve likely noted her name in a photo. I kept hunting, the task providing needed exercise for my brain as well as a break from the subject of my mother’s murder. But I kept on striking out. That was when I remembered seeing a name on Mia’s friends list: Olivia Romero.

  Dark-­eyed, ­dark-­haired Olivia had been Sarah’s closest friend and the focus of my teenage crush. The two women had been joined at the hip, to the point that when Sarah got caught shoplifting, Olivia was right beside her. They’d done everything together. If anyone knew Sarah’s whereabouts and how to get in touch with her, it’d be Olivia.

  Clicking on her profile, I sent a friend request. Since it was late, I wasn’t expecting a response, but it was accepted within seconds. A message popped up the next second.

  Aarav! Nice of you to remember your old friends now you’re famous! /jk

  World famous in my own head.

  Ha! You’re being modest. I saw the movie. It was amazing.

  Thanks. Hey, I was hoping to get in touch with Sarah. Have you heard from her lately?

  The waving dots that indicated the person on the other end was typing went on longer than usual, so I began to go through her friends list on the ­off-­chance Sarah was hidden in there. I’d gotten halfway through when her reply popped up.

  Wow, that’s a blast from the past. Man, we got into such trouble together. Could you have imagined me as a suburban mum with three kids, a golden retriever, and a husband who thinks it’s the height of excitement when one of his zucchinis grows bigger than usual?

  Definitely not, but from the pictures on your page you’re very happy with where you’ve landed.

  I am. I hope Sarah’s happy, too.

  You don’t know?

  No, that’s the ­thing—­she ghosted me years ago, back when she had that blow-­up with Diana. She didn’t even tell me she was taking off. I finally called Diana to ask why Sarah wasn’t ­returning my messages or calls. She’s the one who told me that Sarah had bailed. Can you believe it? Nine years of friendship, of ­sisterhood, and she ghosted me?

  No, I typed, because there could be no other answer.

  I was pissed, but now that I’m a mum, I figure that whatever happened must’ve been extremely traumatic. If she does ever contact me, I’m ready to talk. I’ll be her friend ­again—­I mean, it had to have been BAD. Especially since Diana all but raised her. Look, I go to church twice a week and read my Bible every morning, but Sarah and Diana’s parents were the wrong kind of ­religious—­they took the “spare the rod and spoil the child” thing as a license to harm.

  I hadn’t known that tidbit, but it just solidified my impression of the sisters being a tight unit.

  You have any idea where she might’ve gone? I was planning to play peacemaker, try to help heal the break.

  That’s so nice of you, Aarav. But no, I don’t have anything. Sarah dropped all her friends when she left, even that loser druggie boyfriend she fought with Diana over. I tried to stalk her online last year after I had my second ­child—­feeling nostalgic while ­sleep-­deprived—­but I got nothing. My husband’s an online ninja and he says she’s a literal ghost. Sarah really doesn’t want to be found.

  I leaned back in my chair.

  Thanks anyway. What’s your ninja husband do in real life?

  The ensuing conversation was the kind you have with people you haven’t seen for a while, and I managed to keep up the act for a few minutes. I was trying to think of a way out when Olivia said her ­month-­old baby was ready for a feed and signed off.

  I sat there in the semidarkness, staring out into the night.

  She’s a literal ghost.

  The words kept tumbling around in my head. What the hell was I thinking?

  That Sarah hadn’t left at all?

  56

  Jesus, my paranoia was getting worse. It wasn’t like people couldn’t vanish if they felt like it. And I was looking online. If Sarah had chosen a strictly offline life, she might not have a digital footprint.

  I’d check the electoral roll tomorrow at the library. Unless she’d never registered to vote. Why would a woman leave behind her whole life and vanish? The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. ­Unless … What had Olivia said?

  Loser druggie boyfriend.

  I vaguely remembered the guy. Mostly because I’d been jealous he got to be with Sarah; being a teen boy, crushing on Olivia hadn’t stopped me from admiring Sarah, too. The boyfriend had ended up in jail a year or so after Sarah disappeared and it had caused a minor scandal in the Cul-­de-­Sac, given that he used to come by to pick Sarah up in his patched-­up death trap of a car. Margaret had said she’d caught him loitering outside her and Paul’s place.

  “Probably casing it, thinking we’re doddery oldies.” She’d snorted. “I’d like to see that wasted prick try.”

  Hunching over the keyboard, I began to hunt. It took a while to find him given the scant information I had, but there he was, at last, in a short news article, older, his blond hair graying and his pale skin more inked, but still with the ­mean-­dog look I remembered.

  … sentenced for grievous bodily harm against his de facto partner.

  A man who beat his women might do more than that. He might turn into a dangerous stalker who terrified a young woman into cutting all ties with her previous life. Diana could’ve been protecting Sarah all this time, helping her beloved sister stay under the radar so no one could find her. If so, my meddling might expose her to a predator.

  “Shit.”

  I reached for more sweets, popping each new bite into my mouth at rapid speed as I considered my next step. Leaving Sarah alone for now, I began to search for more information on the abusive boyfriend now that I’d found his name. He�
��d broken the jaw of one girlfriend, threatened another at gunpoint, and beaten a third into a coma. None of which came close to his biggest crime: Daniel “Big Man” Johnson had been jailed five years ago for a horrific double murder.

  I remembered the ­case—­it had been all over the ­media—­but I hadn’t made the connection to Sarah at the time because the guy looked different from when he’d been dating her. Gone was the long hair, a buzz cut in its place, and he had plenty more tattoos than when he’d swung by the Cul-­de-­Sac.

  Johnson hadn’t only been jailed, he’d been handed a sentence of life with a minimum ­non-­parole period of ­thirty-­two years. Technically, he might gain parole after that lengthy period, but given the comments of the trial judge on the danger he posed to society, it wasn’t a realistic possibility.

  If Sarah had run out of fear, why hadn’t she come back after the justice system worked as intended and put him away for good? There were also other oddities in the whole situation. Even if I accepted that she was terrified of Johnson, that didn’t explain why she refused to talk to Mia on the phone.

  All those gifts, sent from various places in the world.

  Chewing on my lower lip, I did a search for Venetian glass. Multiple hits, all the online storefronts of glass boutiques based in Venice. Most delivered worldwide. Mia had indicated Sarah had brought the gift back for her, but if I was remembering wrong and it had been shipped from Venice, that wasn’t a problem, either.

  If you’d like to purchase one of our exquisite pieces as a gift, chirped the FAQ section of one site, rest assured of our discretion. We will email the receipt to you. Your recipient will only get their gift, and your ­message—­printed on our complimentary signature cardstock.

  Many online shops had such systems in place, especially if you went higher end. No need to travel anywhere. No need to even use your own name, since you could type whatever message you wanted onto any included card.