Quiet in Her Bones

by Singh, Nalini

  I saw the holes, however, and I still had no idea how I’d first uncovered the information. Had I actually seen her car that night, even through the rain?

  “Are the police going to come after me?”

  “If you’re telling the truth, I won’t nudge them to look up that old report.”

  Turning in the seat, she clasped her hands to her chest. “Please, please believe me. I didn’t do anything to your mother. That’s all that happened that night.”

  “Go over it again.”

  She did, her story consistent though the words changed. This wasn’t something she’d practiced over and over again to deliver like a speech. It even made sense that the gates had been open when she ­left—­the Cul-­

  de-­Sac had a new system these days and the gates shut automatically two minutes after being opened. Back then, however, we’d had to use our remotes to trigger them shut when we left or they’d stay open.

  Whoever had been driving the Jaguar must’ve forgotten that step.

  “Was anyone else awake in the Cul-­de-­Sac that you could see?”

  “Your closest neighbor. There was a light in a ­second-­floor ­window—­I noticed because I wanted to make sure not to park in anyone’s line of sight. And a few security lights kept going on and off, but I think that was the storm setting them off. Otherwise, it was dark.”

  Her recollection matched mine. Rare flashes of light in my peripheral vision as I … As I what? Pulse speeding up, I fought not to clench my fists. “I need your address and phone number in case I have further questions. Don’t try to ­lie—­you’re not exactly difficult to find.”

  She scribbled down both. “Please don’t come to my house. I’ll meet you anywhere else.”

  Inputting the number into my phone after she passed across the torn piece of notepaper, I called the number. The sleek ­rose-­gold phone she’d put on the dash began to ring.

  Satisfied, I ended the call and opened my door.

  I’d forgotten something important, a piece of knowledge my misfiring brain couldn’t retrieve. Turning, my expression cold and flat, I said, “If I find out you’ve lied, that you had something to do with my mother’s death, I’ll make it my mission to destroy your perfect life.”

  Eyes stark with terror, she dropped the lipstick she’d just pulled out of her purse. “I haven’t lied. I was a stupid ­twenty-­one-­year-­old caught in a situation I should’ve never been in.”

  Twenty-­one.

  My father was an even bigger bastard than I’d thought.

  Shutting the door, I crossed over to my car as fast as the crutches would allow. I’d promised her discretion if she told the truth, so I waited until after children began spilling out of the gates before I pulled away.

  Despite my belief in her honesty, I thought about what it would’ve taken for Aurelie to commit the crime if she was some sort of psychopathic master criminal. She’d have had to drive my mother’s car to where it had gone off the road, ensure it crashed, then make her way back to the Cul-­de-­Sac on foot to move her car before anyone woke up and started asking questions. Difficult if not impossible given the conditions that night.

  Unless of course she’d been the accomplice.

  50

  My father could’ve planned it all, Aurelie his willing helper.

  The fly in the ointment was that, as far as I knew, he’d dropped her like a hot potato not long after my mother’s disappearance. Would he have risked letting her go if she’d had something so damaging on him?

  On the other hand, she’d been a ­twenty-­one-­year-­old girl against a cutthroat CEO. Wouldn’t have been hard to convince her that she was the one who’d go down. Spurned mistress versus grieving widower.

  I could definitely see my father playing it out that way.

  So yes, it was doable, but Aurelie just didn’t seem to have the cool to have pulled off such an enormous ­long-­term lie. “The woman’s husband thinks he married a virgin, Aarav,” I muttered.

  Sweet Aurelie was fully capable of living a lie. But nothing in her demeanor had hinted at guilt. Only panic. For now, I moved her to the bottom of my list. The one thing she had done was confirm the timeline: the person who’d driven my mother to her death had entered the Jaguar inside the Cul-­de-­Sac.

  She stumbled out.

  Pulling over under the dreamy shade of a huge old magnolia in full bloom, I took out my notebook and scribbled down the details of our conversation.

  I underlined the word “stumbled” over and over.

  What had happened inside my father’s house that caused my mother to stumble?

  Flipping back through my notes, I saw my father had admitted to throwing a heavy tumbler at her. I ignored the fact I couldn’t remember that admission to focus on the actual information. Had it caught her ­full-­force, done a lot more damage than he was letting on?

  Or had she simply been drunk? That was as strong a possibility as anything else, but she didn’t generally drink to excess at events. No, she liked to do that at home. Then she’d put on the ­sad-­sounding old ghazals and dance to their melancholy tones.

  I could see her swaying to the music, a tumbler in hand and her hair a sultry waterfall. She’d been wearing a red satin robe only loosely tied at the waist, flashes of skin showing with each movement. I’d been young then, confused by the emotions that raged inside me. That confusion had never ended: I’d always been proud of having her for my mother and angry at the same time.

  Notes done, I pulled out into the quiet street once more.

  The more I learned about what had happened that night, the more I felt like I didn’t know anything. There were too many secrets, too many things I couldn’t ­remember … and too many whispers telling me I was a madman lost in his delusions.

  Shanti watched me with worried eyes when I got home.

  “How’s Pari?” I asked.

  “She told me,” Shanti blurted out. “About the key to Elei’s house. It’s good, what you did. Thank you.”

  “Pari handling it okay?”

  “Yes, she had many questions. I told her the truth, that Cora was hurting Alice and that it’s right that you called the police.” She twisted the dish towel in her hands. “It’s modern thinking, but I don’t ever want to see my daughter end up beaten like that. Not even to save the family from shame.”

  I’d already made sure my sister knew that should anyone ever hurt her in any way, she was to come straight to me. I would always believe and help her. But this was a big step for Shanti. “She was great last ­night—­you should be proud.”

  Shanti’s smile was brilliant. “I am.”

  “I’ll swing by her room, say hi.”

  “Do you want a Coke? A snack?” She was already bustling around. “I can fry up a plate of samosas. I made some fresh the other day and froze them so they’d be ready to fry anytime.”

  “Yes, thanks.” I was ravenous, as if my hunger had returned with the lifting of the fog in my brain.

  Be careful, Aarav. You might be most at risk when you believe you’re thinking clearly.

  “Shanti?”

  She glanced up from the freezer. “Yes?”

  “Do I seem better to you? More mentally present?” Shanti alone, of all the adults in the Cul-­de-­Sac, had no reason to lie to ­me—­except, of course, for her loyalty to my father. But seeing as Ishaan Rai in no way treated his wife as a partner, she was unlikely to know enough to have a reason to lie.

  “Yes.” Her smile brightened her whole face. “You’re here, ­not … far away.”

  The knots in my back melted. “Thank you.”

  “Go see Pari. I’ll bring up your snacks.” An intent look. “You’re a good brother, Aarav. Thank you for never making her feel lesser, even though you’re the elder son.”

  I never knew what to say to patriarchal shit like that, so I just smiled and headed upstairs to the corner of the house opposite my suite. My sister had a single room because Shanti didn’t believe in spoilin
g a small child with an expansive suite. But that room was full of white and pink with splashes of Pari’s favorite yellow, a collection of stuffed animals lined up neatly on her bed. She was coloring at her desk when I entered.

  “Bhaiya, you’re walking better!”

  Only then did I realize I’d been putting more weight on my injured foot. “Maybe I can get this boot off soon and actually wash my leg.”

  “Ew.” She screwed up her nose, but smiled as I took a seat on the edge of her bed; her duvet cover was a ruffled pink printed with woodland creatures.

  “You want to talk about last night?” I asked. “Pretty scary time.”

  Shanti came in halfway through our talk with Coke for me, and a hot cocoa for Pari, as well as the samosas, but then left us alone. It was as I was finishing off my second samosa that our conversation wandered onto other subjects.

  School. Pari’s favorite band. Mia’s birthday.

  “I’m not sad,” Pari reassured me. “About the sleepover. I know it’s for big girls, and Mia’s gonna come have cake with me. Mum helped me choose a present for her.” She took a sip of cocoa before making a hopeful face. “Do you think I can have a sleepover when I’m sixteen?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  Leaving her to her coloring twenty minutes later, I was on my way to my room when Shanti called up. “Aarav! The police have come.”

  I got myself down the stairs to find Regan and Neri waiting in the hallway, while Shanti hovered.

  “If we could have some of your time,” Regan began, the pockmarks on his skin highlighted by the small chandelier that lit this part of the house.

  “Sure. You want to sit down?”

  “Actually, we’d prefer it if you accompanied us to the station.”

  51

  I ignored Shanti’s gasp.

  “Seriously?”

  “It’d be good to get your statement on record.”

  Horse. Shit. Cops thought they had something, and wanted to go at me on their own turf. But I also wanted to know what they had. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

  No outward reaction, but I wondered if they’d made a personal appearance in order to gauge my reaction to being asked to come in. Once in my sedan, I contacted the lawyer I used for conveyancing and other civil stuff.

  I had Wendy’s private ­after-­hours number because I was a ­multimillion-­dollar client.

  After quickly bringing her up to speed, I said, “I need a good criminal lawyer to meet me at the station.” While I wanted information, I wasn’t about to hang myself out to dry.

  Especially with a malfunctioning brain.

  “Veda Fitzpatrick is one of the best,” Wendy pointed out.

  My gaze moved in the direction of Brett and Veda’s house, though I couldn’t see anything from this position. “No, not her. Find someone else.”

  Regan and Neri were still waiting when I started up my engine and backed out of the drive. Falling in behind them, I drove exactly at the legal speed limit or a few kilometers lower. I wanted to give the lawyer plenty of time to arrive ahead of me.

  She was waiting in reception, a petite woman wearing a coat of fine black wool over a little black dress she’d paired with a string of pearls. “Mr. Rai.” She held out her hand. “I’m Justina Cheung. Wendy Michaels sends her regards.”

  “Sorry to interrupt your night.”

  When she said, “I’m used to it,” I wondered who she usually represented.

  “Detective Regan, Constable Neri, Ms. Cheung is my lawyer.”

  “We’re well acquainted.” Regan gave a short nod in her direction before returning his attention to me. “You’re not under arrest.” His pale eyes flickered. “This is a friendly conversation.”

  I pulled out my most charming smile. “Put it down to paranoia induced by watching too many crime shows where some poor schmuck gets life for simply being an idiot. So, can we sit somewhere?”

  “Follow me.”

  We ended up in a room clearly set up for interrogations, complete with bare concrete walls and a ­one-­way mirror. After turning on the recording equipment, Regan identified everyone for posterity, then asked me to tell him what I remembered from that night ten years ago that had changed my life forever.

  I began the narrative from when my parents first arrived home, went from there.

  “Nothing else to add?” Regan said when I eventually came to a halt.

  “That’s what I remember.” I was careful to use the right words, words that couldn’t come back to bite me.

  “I’d like to show you something.” Opening a file Neri had brought into the room after ducking out for a minute, he retrieved something. “Do you know what this is?”

  I frowned. “X-­ray.”

  “More specifically, it’s an X-­ray of your left tibia.”

  “From after my car accident?”

  “No, this was taken while you were a minor.” He pointed to a section on the image. “This evidences a major fracture that would’ve put you in a cast for months.”

  Heaviness in my leg. Dragging it around like it wasn’t attached to me.

  “Why do you have my client’s medical records?” Justina Cheung interrupted, her voice crisp and calm. “This is a major breach of privacy.”

  “We had a warrant, Ms. Cheung.” He pushed across a piece of paper.

  After scanning it, Justina said, “I fail to see the relevance of a childhood injury to the current situation.”

  “Please get your client to check the date of the X-­ray and the attached medical report.”

  I had to blink twice to clear the fog enough to focus. And then, nothing made sense.

  This X-­ray had been done ten years ­ago … the day after my mother’s disappearance. Five o’clock in the morning. The medical jargon boiled down to a single glaring ­fact—­that my father had brought me into the emergency department with a broken leg as well as “multiple scrapes and abrasions.”

  “No,” I murmured. “This isn’t right. I got stitches the night before my mother vanished. Hurt myself at a party.”

  “You did,” Regan confirmed, retrieving another medical report from his file. “But you returned to the ER the next night with your ­father—­and with far more severe injuries.” ­Dishwater-­blue eyes held mine. “Can you explain this second set of injuries?”

  “Aarav, you don’t have to say a word,” Justina advised. “The detective is fishing.”

  It was good advice, but where did we go if I walked out? They’d focus on me to the exclusion of all others, go down one blind alley after another.

  I rubbed my face with both hands, then decided to hell with it. Looking Regan straight in the face, I said, “I have no memory of the incident.” Except for the heaviness in my leg, a strange sense of déjà vu.

  Neri spoke for the first time, a forced humor to her tone. “This is going to take a long time if you refuse to ­cooperate—­there are images online of you as a ­sixteen-­year-­old in a leg cast.”

  Justina Cheung caught my eye, the warning in her gaze clear: Keep your mouth shut and admit nothing.

  I considered my options. If I confessed that my brain wasn’t working as it should, they’d begin to doubt everything I’d ever ­said—­including the scream I’d heard that night, the scream that had haunted me for so long that it was imprinted on every cell in my body. But if I didn’t cop to it, they’d label me a liar and ignore what I had to say anyway.

  Fucked either way. Might as well not get arrested and pull the investigation sideways.

  Retrieving my phone, I brought up Dr. Binchy’s number. “Here.” I flipped the phone so they could see his details. “Go talk to the neurosurgeon currently in charge of my brain.”

  The two cops exchanged a quick look; they hadn’t known about the neurological damage. Guess patient confidentiality counted for something.

  “You’re saying you have a brain injury?” Pure disbelief in Neri’s voice.

  “I’m saying I was in a car crash
and got whacked on the head.”

  “Will you give Dr. Binchy permission to talk to us?” Regan asked before Neri could reply.

  “He gave me an ­after-­hours number in case of emergency. I’ll try text­ing that to see if he’s willing to interrupt his ­weekend—­otherwise, you’ll have to wait till Monday morning.”

  I sent the text:

  Hey Doc. About to get arrested. You free to talk to cops and tell them I’m not lying about the memory issues?

  Dr. Binchy called back seconds later.

  Justina made a show of asking for private time with her client before Regan and Neri left to take the call. I figured that meant she was making it clear the recording devices better be turned off.

  Not having much to say because I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, I pulled over the documents from my former injury.

  Justina leaned in close to murmur, “Regan’s a cunning bastard.” Her breath was soft and smelled of mint. “He probably left that on purpose to try and unsettle you.”

  “Noted.”

  In the end, there wasn’t much to the medical ­report—­I’d been diagnosed with a broken tibia, had it set, then been sent home. The doctor’s notes stated there was no evidence of child abuse and all indications were that I’d fallen from my bike as per my father’s report.

  I stared at the word “bike.” It could mean motorcycle as well as bicycle.

  However, I’d had a mountain bike and had often taken off into the bush around the Cul-­de-­Sac despite rules prohibiting mountain biking. Go off a trail at high speed and broken bones were a real possibility.

  Images of the dark green trees turning into a blur because of my speed, of water sluicing down the visor of my helmet.

  My bicycle helmet had never had a visor.

  My stomach was churning by the time Regan and Neri walked back into the room.

  “We’re going to suspend the interview at this stage,” Detective Regan said after restarting the recording. “But, we will be coming back to you, so please don’t leave the area.”

  “No intention of going anywhere until you find out who did this to my mother.” Whatever had happened that night, I refused to believe I’d had anything to do with it. For all her faults, she’d been my mother and I’d loved her.