Quiet in Her Bones

by Singh, Nalini

  The literary media couldn’t get enough of our friendship. One of the latest headlines had described us as The Literary Wunderkind and The Bloodthirsty Bestseller. Would we have been friends if we’d competed in the same sphere? I didn’t think so. Kahu’s level of arrogance mirrored ­mine—­we worked because he thought literary accolades were the pinnacle of success, while my counter was millions of copies sold.

  Paige had always thought Kahu was an ass. “All those backhanded compliments he gives you in interviews? You need to rethink that toxic relationship.”

  That was the one thing about which we’d never agreed. I didn’t think Kahu was toxic. Yeah, he could be an ass, and he was one of my chief enablers when it came to the drinking, but he was also one of the few people who understood even a small piece of me.

  I was staring out at the falling darkness thinking I should give him a call and wondering vaguely why he hadn’t dropped me a note himself when a gleaming black Mercedes turned into the drive of the residence next to Alice and Cora’s.

  Hemi Henare was home.

  Yellow light glowed in the windows of the modern ­three-­level ­wood-­and-­glass structure that was his house. Either Tia Henare or one of their three adult children was already inside. The house didn’t appear as tall as it was because it had been built in a slight ­hollow—­that positioning also gave the family even more privacy than the rest of the Cul-­de-­Sac.

  But my father’s house was located on a small rise at the end of the street. Not elevated enough for anyone to comment on ­it—­but enough that from my ­tree-­shrouded aerie, I could see nearly all movement in the ­street—­including some ­otherwise-­secluded areas.

  Such as the corner of the Henare family’s triple garage.

  Hemi didn’t lower the electronic garage door after nosing in his car beside his wife’s sporty red roadster. Neither did I see the home’s lower front windows glow with the internal sensor light that meant he’d exited into the hallway. He was still in the car. Probably on a phone call ­or—­I glanced at my ­watch—­listening to the hourly news bulletin.

  I moved before I’d consciously processed the decision. Cane in hand, I hobbled as fast as possible down the stairs, and out the door. My breath was coming in puffs, and the wet chill in the air reminded me I’d forgotten my ­jacket—­but when I finally made it to the Henare place, I found I was in luck.

  The garage door was still up.

  Stepping onto their heavily ­tree-­shadowed drive just as the streetlights came on against the falling night, I walked into the garage and around to the ­passenger-­side door of the Mercedes. There was plenty of room even with both vehicles inside, and since Hemi hadn’t bothered to lock his car, I opened the passenger door and got in.

  20

  The radio was playing music, an old song that’d had Hemi smiling before I startled him.

  Eyebrows snapping together, he said, “What’s the meaning of this, Aarav?”

  As if I were still a student being called on the carpet in the principal’s office.

  I held his angry brown gaze, his irises two or three shades lighter than the burnished brown of his skin. His thick and slightly wavy hair, in contrast, was a rich ebony. Of proud Māori descent, Hemi was heavily involved with the management of the local iwi, and his children were ­standard-­bearers for Māori achievement.

  Ariki was in the army and rising quickly up the ranks.

  Mihirangi had just graduated law school.

  Rima was currently in medical school.

  Both women still lived with their parents.

  Beautiful and curvy Tia was a devoted homemaker with extensive charity interests. She and my mother had hated each other for reasons I’d never ­understood—­though I had my guesses. As for the family money, no high school principal made the kind of salary that would allow him to live in the Cul-­de-­Sac.

  The money came from a ­multimillion-­dollar building supplies business started by Tia’s grandfather that was still fully ­family-­owned. Tia was one of three siblings ­and—­per interviews given by their ­parents—­each one had been given a ten percent shareholding in the company on their ­twenty-­fifth birthday.

  “We want to see what our tamariki do with their wealth,” her father had said. “They’ve been brought up to be of service, and to do the mahi.”

  Yes, Tia definitely did the work. Despite her avowed dedication to her family, Tia’s involvement with charity wasn’t ­rich-­woman dabbling. She was the force behind at least two major children’s charities, and donated a quarter of her shareholder income each year.

  Information that ­had—­again—­been proudly shared by her parents. But Tia’s money also meant luxury European cars, a house straight out of a designer magazine, and no reason to steal a measly quarter million.

  Unless, of course, Paul and Margaret had been right and someone in the family had squandered away so much cash that they’d once been on the verge of bankruptcy.

  “Hurry up, Aarav.” Hemi’s tone was the wrong side of irritable. “I’ve just got back from an education conference in Sydney. I’m tired.”

  Energy prickled my skin. If he’d been in Australia, it was possible he hadn’t heard about the recent discovery. “The police found my mother.”

  New lines of tension formed around his eyes, his lips pursed. Hemi was a handsome man, ­wide-­shouldered and ­square-­jawed, and with a sense of competence about him. I could see why my mother had been drawn to him.

  Switching off the radio in a quick, hard move, he said, “Where’s Nina been all this time?”

  “In a rusting green Jaguar a few minutes’ drive from here.”

  Hemi’s head jerked toward me, the whites of his eyes bright around his irises. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  His shock appeared genuine, but he was tipped to run in the next city council election. He had a politician’s ability to think one thing and show another on his face.

  “All signs are that she’s been dead since the night she disappeared.”

  She’d been wearing a sleeveless top of red silk, flowing black pants. And when she kissed me before she went out with my father, she’d smelled of expensive musk. I’d watched her walk down the steps to the ground floor, her pants moving fluidly around her legs and her hair a glossy tumble.

  She’d turned back at the bottom and smiled.

  “Fuck.” It was the first time I’d ever heard Hemi swear. “Fuck!”

  This was it. My one shot. “Why did you threaten to kill her?”

  His muscles bunched, a tick in his jaw. “I think you’d better get out of my car.”

  “I kept a diary. Wrote down your exact words. I’m sure the police would love to see it.” No flinching, no hesitation, I kept going. “ ‘I’ll kill you, you bitch.’ ” I emulated his ugly tone. “ ‘Just give me an excuse.’ ”

  The glance he shot me this time was poisonous. “You really are her son.”

  “Yes. I won’t give up trying to find the truth.”

  “What? That she crashed her car in a drunken mistake?”

  “Hell of a lot of cops for an accident.” I shifted to get out of the car but didn’t exit.

  Hemi stared at me for a long time. “Are you sure you want to know the truth?”

  I didn’t move.

  His laugh was cruel. “Your mother was a ­stone-­cold bitch. She did ­everything in her power to get me into her bed, then when I gave in and took what was on offer, she threatened to tell Tia. I would have killed her if she’d done it, but Nina had the good sense to keep her mouth shut.”

  “She might’ve been a ­stone-­cold bitch, but I don’t see a leash on you.” Screw allowing men to blame my mother for their mistakes. “You had a choice.”

  Rage contorted features suddenly outlined by light that spilled into the garage from the internal access door. ­Ariki—­Riki to those who’d known him in ­childhood—­stood silhouetted against that light. Home on a furlough from the army. I’d seen his t
hickly muscled form earlier in the week, walking up the drive with his camo duffel over his shoulder.

  Exiting the car, I shut the door behind me. Riki stepped into the garage at the same time. “Aarav, what are you doing here?” Brow furrowed, ­expression ­dark—­but that had been standard for Riki since his teenage years.

  “I wanted to talk to your father about my mother. He always took extra time with me at school.” Mostly to discipline me for petty infractions. It had begun from around the time I turned fifteen; probably when my mother broke up with him. Either it’d been a power play to remind her he had control over her son so she wouldn’t go through with her ­threat—­or the action of a rejected man bitter that a charismatic and beautiful woman no longer wanted him.

  Riki’s mouth stayed flat, his expression unchanging; he’d inherited his mother’s rounded features but not her vivid emotional range. “Yeah?”

  He said nothing further until his father had stalked inside the house after saying only “Don’t be late for dinner, Riki,” in greeting.

  “Where’s she been all this time?” Riki raised an eyebrow. “Some island paradise, right? Did she hook herself a new rich fish?”

  The casual cruelty of his words was unexpected. Two years my senior and a popular ­high-­school athlete, Riki had never been the mean kid in the neighborhood. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” He ran a hand over his severe buzz cut. “I just got home from a hunting trip. Left two days ago.”

  I wondered if he expected me to believe that bullshit; my mother’s return was the biggest piece of news in the Cul-­de-­Sac. “She’s dead.”

  He didn’t even try to fake grief or sorrow. “Sorry, man.” A slap to my upper arm. “I know you loved her. What happened?”

  He whistled when I told him. “All this time, she was lying there while we drove past. Unbelievable.”

  Everything about his response was off. The tone, the speed at which the words came from his mouth, how he stared blankly past my shoulder.

  Rumor was, Riki was in the SAS, the army’s elite special forces unit. Soldiers in the SAS went behind enemy lines to do deadly and dangerous things. That had to have an effect on a person. Maybe this was how Riki always was ­now—­I hadn’t had enough interaction with him as an adult to judge.

  A call from inside the house.

  “Better go. Mum made roast especially for me.”

  “She’s happy to have you home.”

  “Yeah. Mums, eh?” Seemingly unaware of the insensitivity of his remark, he walked me out to the main drive.

  The streetlights along the entire Cul-­de-­Sac had been put in place by the developer who’d sold the lots. They were designed to blend in to the environment, the lighting soft. On a balmy summer evening, it gave the area a pretty glow. On a dark winter’s night, with the breeze a cold bite, the small pools of light only emphasized the looming darkness of the forest that whispered all around us.

  “I really am sorry, man.” Riki slapped me on the shoulder this time. “It’s tough to lose your mum.”

  It was as I was walking back to my father’s house that his words ­penetrated … and my bruised brain disgorged a critical piece of information. The problem was, I didn’t know the dates and how they lined up. But what I did recall with certainty was that Riki had won a major athletic competition at the same time.

  Tears had shone on his face as he stood on the podium. Lifting his medal, he’d mouthed, “This is for you, Mum.”

  But Tia, proud mama bear and staunch supporter of her children’s activities, hadn’t been in the audience.

  Transcript

  Session #5

  “What I said in the last ­session—­about wearing a skin ­suit—­it bothered you, didn’t it?”

  “If you felt that, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t come here for lies. Just tell me.”

  “Yes, I was a touch startled, but it was unprofessional of me to let it show and I apologize for that. I hope it won’t affect our working relationship.”

  “I’d much rather talk to a real ­person—­I actually feel more comfortable with you now.”

  “That’s good to know. Do you want to talk about the skin suit reference?”

  “Do you think we should?”

  “It’s quite a brutal way to describe having dual identities. Is that how you feel? As if you’re ripping off one persona to reveal another?”

  “I don’t think of it as ripping ­off … more like a snake molting. It’s normal for me.”

  21

  “Aarav.” Shanti’s shaky voice greeted me the moment I entered the house. “I’ve set out dinner. Your father’s expecting you.”

  My intent had been to race upstairs as fast as I could, chase that fragment of memory before it faded or broke. But faced with her hopeful face and hunched shoulders, I nodded. “We should talk as a family anyway.”

  She exhaled so hard that she ruffled the gauzy pink of the long scarf she wore with her pale yellow salwar kameez. The traditional tunic and pants outfit was her go-­to at home. She seemed to have an endless collection.

  The ends of the scarf lifting a little as she moved, she led me into the ­otherwise-­empty dining room. The table was heavy oak polished to a shine. I had a clear memory of my mother running her fingers over the glossy surface, her nails polished a lustrous red and her body clad in a yellow sundress that flirted with her thighs.

  “The things we could do on this table,” she’d purred to my father, while I played nearby.

  I’d been young, probably five or six, but the memory was vivid to the point that it hurt against the eye. As if the contrast had been turned up, every painful color made extra dramatic. The red on her toenails, the shine that came off her thin gold anklet, the strokes of scarlet on her lips.

  I’d often wondered if Shanti knew that, different paint job or not, she lived in a home shaped by the tastes and whims of another woman and the man who had always tried to own my mother and failed. Even back then, when they’d still been mostly functional as a couple, there had been an edge between them, a vicious sharpness to every interaction.

  “This looks delicious,” I said after taking in the dishes on the table.

  “I made your favorite pickles.”

  “Mama.” Pari ran into the room, skidding to a halt the instant she saw a male, then breaking out into a smile when she realized it was me and not our father.

  She quickly took the seat beside me, so that my body would screen hers from view. I tugged on one of her pigtails just as our father entered the room. The smiles faded, the air became brittle.

  He sat down at the head of the table, Shanti to his right and me to his left.

  “How did you do in school today?” he demanded of Pari.

  Shrinking into her seat, my sister looked down at her hands. “The teacher said I did good.”

  “Anything would be better than your last report. We don’t get Bs in this family.”

  “Is that your priority today?” I broke in silkily before taking a sip of the water Shanti always put beside my plate in lieu of wine.

  “We’re hardly going to discuss adult business with a child at the table.”

  “Then let’s feed the child and get her to bed so we can talk.” I suited action to words by starting to serve myself.

  My father’s lips pressed together, but I’d succeeded in distracting him. Shanti bustled around at the same time to dish things out for my father. She’d been doing that as long as I could remember.

  I’d been eighteen when my father ­remarried—­almost exactly a week after the divorce was ­finalized—­and the first time I saw them interact, Shanti was bringing him a cup of coffee while he sat at the table reading the paper.

  Today, he nodded curtly to show her he had enough of that particular dish.

  Shanti went around to pick up another dish, while my father told her she needed to make more masala chili pickles as he was almost down to his last one.

  I caugh
t Pari’s gaze and winked while he was distracted. Her smile was fleeting but it returned when I scratched the side of my nose. I’d taught her the signal long ­ago—­it meant I’d hidden a sweet treat in her bedroom.

  I’d done it while she was in the kitchen after school, knowing tonight would be a bad night and that there was a good chance she’d be caught in the crossfire. It was how my father operated. He’d ripped me to shreds each time he and my mother had a fight, but I’d had the advantage of being obnoxiously clever and not giving a shit. I’d brought home straight As without trying.

  When he pushed me too far, I made sure those glowing As turned into red Fs.

  He’d soon learned to leave me alone unless he wanted to be shamed by a son who had to repeat a year of school. Pari was clever, too, but she wasn’t obnoxious. No, my younger sister was empathic to the extreme, the kind of person who carried bugs outside and worried whether the birds had enough to drink in summer.

  We ate in chill silence. When Shanti tried to start conversation with an innocuous comment about how Paul and Margaret were thinking of getting a new dog now that their old one had been gone for a year, my father snapped, “At least they always cleaned up after their damn incontinent poodle. Not like the Fitzpatricks and their slobbering beast.”

  Much as it pained me to agree with my father on anything, he wasn’t wrong there. The power couple, who were both senior associates in a major corporate law firm, had a habit of allowing their German shepherd to use their neighbors’ verges and even their gardens as its toilet. I’d seen poor Diana screwing up her nose and using a plastic bag to clear away a deposit left in her prized rose garden.

  With so much bushland around us where the dog could dig a hole to do its business if its owners couldn’t be arsed cleaning up after it, there really was no excuse to befoul neighboring properties. It didn’t help that the dog was a badly trained menace. Add all that to some of its owners’ other behavior, and Brett and Veda were disliked by everyone in the Cul-­de-­Sac. Except maybe by Mellie.