Such a Perfect Family

Chapter 1

I'd buried Susanne on this day in October five years ago.

My hands clenched on the steering wheel, my chest tight at the sudden, crushing memory of the first woman I'd ever loved. Complex, sophisticated Susanne Winthorpe, lover of red dresses and stiletto heels, who never stepped foot out of the home without her signature full face of makeup-and at least one diamond.

As different from Diya as the sun was from the moon.

The tightness in my chest evaporated as I thought of how my wife's face would light up when I handed her the box of little taster cakes on the front passenger seat. She'd asked me to pick them up from the bakery so we could choose a cake for the reception to take place after our religious wedding ceremony in six months' time; my in-laws weren't satisfied with the fact we were legally married, wanted the whole shindig.

So I'd be getting married to Diya all over again . . . and that was more than fine with me.

My heart doing that thing it did only for her, I made sure to take the corners with smooth grace to ensure the cake box didn't slide off the seat and onto the floor. Water glinted to my right as I passed Lake Tikitapu, which Diya had told me was also called the Blue Lake, the morning sunlight a bright sparkle that had already lured a couple of kayakers onto the water.

I hoped they were wearing wet suits just in case.

The end of October in New Zealand meant spring-brilliant sunshine, crisp temperatures, cherry blossoms and wisteria blooms-but the lakes still felt as cold as ice to my Los Angeles-born-and-bred body. I couldn't figure out how my father-in-law jumped into frigid lake water every morning for a vigorous one-hour swim.

"It's good for the heart, my boy!"

Then Lake Tikitapu was in my rearview mirror, with Lake Rotokākahi, or the Green Lake, coming up ahead. Nestled in the thick green bush in between was a lookout from which you could see both lakes. I continued past, my destination the far larger body of water that was Rajesh Prasad's daily swimming spot.

It didn't take long, the road all but empty today.

I'd already turned into the drive that led to the beautifully landscaped and expansive property that was the Prasad family home when I noticed smoke drifting up above the tops of the native trees and ferns that flanked the path's gentle downward slope.

Smoke in the closest township wasn't unusual-Rotorua was a geothermal city known for its boiling mud pools, hot springs, and geysers, alongside the distinctive scent of sulfur that came and went with the wind. Friends of the Prasads in the city had recently ended up with a sinkhole in their front yard. Small, it mostly blew up curls of hot white smoke-but go deeper and I had no doubt you'd encounter water or mud capable of giving you third-degree burns.

The authorities had fenced off the sinkhole and evacuated everyone from the home while they investigated, and the family involved had been joking about charging people to come look at their own personal piece of geothermal scenery. Beneath the jokes, however, was the fear that their home was sitting atop a disaster waiting to happen.

But the Prasad home wasn't in Rotorua central. It sat on the edge of the clear blue-green waters of Lake Tarawera, a good twenty-five-minute drive out of the main part of the city, longer if roadworks were in progress. Close enough to be doable for two specialists who rarely had patient emergencies, but far enough to have the feel of a peaceful enclave set apart from the city.

It wasn't that Lake Tarawera didn't feature any geothermal activity-as I'd discovered to my delight when Diya led me on an overnight hike to a hot-water beach on the shores of the lake. We'd walked out of the bush after our hike under the stars to the surreal sight of steam rising off the water, the small boats anchored on the lake ghostly afterimages.

But this smoke . . . it was too black, too dark, too high.

My mouth dried up.

I pressed my foot to the accelerator pedal and just glimpsed the Prasads' nearest neighbors-a family of three-running into the drive behind me; their mouths were open, as if they were yelling. Ignoring them, I turned the corner of the drive-to come to a screeching halt behind a bright yellow Mini Cooper.

The cake box slammed into the passenger footwell.

"Diya!" It came out a scream as I tumbled from the car in front of the elegant single-level family home that now boiled with fire.

The lake lapped placidly in the background, below a sweep of green lawn that led to a private jetty and boathouse, with the bush-clad hills on the other side casting shadows across the wide swath of water.

The Prasad home was-had been-a showpiece. Huge panes of glass, polished wood stained a rich black, landscaping heavy with native trees and shrubs, each element thoughtfully put together to create a property that fit the landscape rather than attempting to conquer it. Unlike some of the McMansions I'd seen in lakeside towns, the homes around Lake Tarawera weren't about a display of excess, but about quiet, luxurious beauty.

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, zoom around. 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 beginning 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.

Saving Diya was my reason for being.

"Go around to the right!" I yelled at the neighbor. "I'll go left! See if you can find a way in!"

The other man didn't argue, just took off in a wide arc around the burning house while I did the same on the other side. I stayed closer, though, close enough that soot and ash landed on my T-shirt and the heat blazed against one side of my face.

Sweat pooled under my armpits, beaded along my brow.

Please, baby, please.

It was a mantra inside my head as I searched frantically for any possible entrance into the house. I knew where Diya would've most likely been-in the large central living room filled with comfortable sofas and the biggest wall-mounted television I'd ever seen. That living room flowed off the kitchen so that it was all one huge area separated only by furniture, plants, and clever placement of artwork.

I could get to that space from the glass door on this side-it was segmented into panels, a line of black demarking each panel, and could be folded back to open up this entire side of the house. The same could be done at the back, to create an indoor-outdoor flow from the lounge to the back patio with its sweeping views of the lake.

But when I turned the corner, it was to see shards of glass scattered across the lush green grass that was Dr. Rajesh Prasad's pride and joy. "This lawn eats better than I do!" Diya's father had joked last week while fertilizing it with the special organic lawn fertilizer he had shipped from a supplier all the way in Dunedin.

Flames poured out of the empty maws of the door panels, hot orange tongues that threatened to lick at my clothing.

My chest spasmed, the coughs I'd barely been managing to control turning into a hacking akin to that of an old man with a four-pack-a-day habit. "Diya!" I screamed when I could catch enough breath to make sound.

The fire's roar, the crash of timber inside, was the only reply.

A small flame carried on a tiny piece of paper landed on my T-shirt, burning a hole in it. Brushing it off, I continued on around to the back of the house even though I knew that it was too late-even if I somehow managed to get in, there was no way anyone inside that house had survived.

Tears streamed down my face, but they were from the grit and smoke. Not grief. Because I wasn't done yet. The lawn led directly down to the lake, the distance a matter of seconds to cover at a run. If Diya had managed to stumble out in that direction, she could've taken refuge in the chilly water.

Even if she'd run out panicked, disoriented, and with burns, it would've been instinct to head that way.

That last shred of hope held tight in my desperate hands, I started to turn the corner-

My knees and hands slammed onto the grass, the knuckles of my right hand grazing the hard edge of the patio stones.

Even the grass felt hot. As did my back, the house and its devouring flames too close.

I didn't care. About the heat, or about the throbbing in my knees.

The reason I'd fallen was because I'd tripped over someone. "Diya!" I cradled her in my arms even as I blinked desperately in an effort to see more clearly through the smoke.

She rasped a breath, the honey-brown skin of her face paler than I'd ever seen it, and her floral dress and green cardigan all wet against my skin. She must've doused herself with water in an effort to survive. "Diya, baby, I've got you! Hold on!"

Her fingers clutched at my tee, her eyes pleading as her mouth moved.

Desperation was a scream in her expression.

I'd been about to rise to my feet with her in my arms but now leaned instinctively closer to reassure her that she'd be all right.

But Diya spoke first. Her voice was a ragged whisper, her breath hotter than the fire. "Annie . . . they said . . . about Annie . . . not . . ."