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)
Tucked in between the newer builds were a number of small and well-maintained cottages from another time, pretty little chocolate-box things with planters that had just begun to overflow with flowers as spring took solid hold.
The Prasad home had been constructed only eight years earlier—from bespoke plans created by an award-winning architect. Even the attached garage and the apartment above it had been designed with care. Stained a black to match the main house, the garage’s roll-up door appeared to be wood of the same shade, while the apartment’s triangular facing walls on both sides were glass.
That glass was shattered now.
All the glass was gone, nothing but shards that burned with reflected fire, glowing pieces of shrapnel on the charred lawn.
Black smoke poured out of the resulting gaping holes and through the roof, which had partially fallen in, while jets of flame shot out through the side of the house that had boasted a grand open-plan kitchen designed for entertaining, complete with a dining area centered around an artisan-constructed table of reclaimed swamp kauri.
Thousands of dollars of precious wood that was now kindling.
All of it to feed a fire that might’ve stolen something infinitely more precious to me.
The heat scalded my skin even from this distance out, my arm rising instinctively in an effort to shield my face as I moved toward Diya’s beloved car in the vain hope that she was sitting shell-shocked behind the wheel. Of course it was empty—and it was parked behind her brother’s black Mercedes-Benz SUV and her father’s cream-colored Lexus.
“Call the fire department!” I screamed at the neighbors who’d raced down the drive behind me.
I’d seen the building that housed the Lake Tarawera Fire Station, a curve of black with huge barn-style doors on the lake side of the road, knew it wasn’t far. Diya had told me it was a volunteer-run station—I didn’t know what that meant, whether it was staffed twenty-four seven or not.
If we had to wait for help from Rotorua…
“We already called! But I’ll call again and tell them how bad it is!” the neighbors’ teenage son yelled, while I and the dad—I couldn’t remember the stocky man’s name—ran toward the fire.
The mother, in shorts and a tank top too lightweight for the chill morning air, her feet bare and her ash-blond hair falling out of a loose bun, turned to shout at her son. “Bring the phone back with you!”
Already some distance away, I barely heard her.
Grit in my throat, a stinging in my eyes. I began to cough well before we reached the wider periphery of the house, the smoke was so noxious. Lifting my forearm to my nose, I blinked rapidly in an effort to see the front door through my watering eyes.
Even though Diya and I lived in the apartment above the garage, I knew she’d be in the main part of the house. She was a creature of family, loved being involved, wouldn’t have been able to bear being out of the mix when she saw that her brother and sister-in-law had come to visit.
Especially today. The morning after the party.
She’d have been so excited to discuss the night with her sister-in-law, who happened to be her best friend. And all the while, she’d have been keeping an ear open for the sound of the forest green Alfa Romeo Stelvio Quadrifoglio I’d borrowed from her mother for my run into the city, since my long legs weren’t as comfortable in the Mini.
Truth was, I just liked driving the high-performance vehicle Dr. Sarita Prasad called her “midlife noncrisis” car.
“After working my tail off all these years,” she’d said to me when I admired it, “I decided I deserved this ridiculously gorgeous thing even if it gives me palpitations that it’s worth more than our first house!” Then she’d handed me the key. “Go, have fun. Give it a workout.”
This morning, she’d already been for her morning run when I popped my head into the main house. Still in her running gear, her curly hair up in a ponytail, she’d lobbed the key at me before I could ask to borrow the vehicle, her smile wide enough to carve grooves in her cheeks. She loved that I loved the car as much as she did—it had been our first conversation about the Alfa Romeo that had taken our relationship from awkward acquaintances to the beginnings of true family.
“No, man! You can’t go in!” The neighbor’s breathless voice from behind me, his hand gripping the back of the long-sleeved gray T-shirt I’d thrown on for the drive into Rotorua. “The fire’s too strong! The front door’s collapsed!”
He was right, but I wasn’t about to abandon Diya. Given the presence of the Lexus and the Mercedes, I knew four other people must’ve been inside the house when it went up in flame, but helping them would be a thing automatic, a thing I’d do for any human.