“The police said whoever it was had probably been lying in wait for some time,” Hena reminded her. “The back window was unlocked, and he spray-painted the security cameras, remember?”
Red. He’d sprayed them red. Like the blood dripping from his midsection. A trail leading to the woods before dissolving into the swamp. The police believed him long dead. The waters he’d fled through were vast—full of alligators, pythons, and water moccasins. Even with the DNA evidence, no one—not the police, not the private investigator her mother hired—had found a single lead.
“I’m sorry, Hena. You deserve closure.” Khala rested a hand on her arm.
The bell chimed again as her mother and Gita entered the store, halting their conversation. Hena was grateful. Because the truth was, not everything needed closure. Some questions were better left unanswered.
“Greetings!” The store owner, Muni, hurried toward them. Moments later they were escorted to a dressing room in the back. Thirty glittering outfits—saris, ghararas, lenghas, and kurtas—hung from hooks. Hena inwardly groaned. Shewould’ve been fine grabbing a few things in her size and calling it a day, but she’d agreed to come. It was no use arguing now. Best to get this over with as soon as possible.
But as she tried on the selections—and the other clothes Muni continually added to the queue at her mother’s direction—she began to understand why attention to detail was absolutely necessary. Lulu said the wedding party outfits didn’t need to be identical, but from mandatory pastels for that afternoon’s bridal shower to silver and copper tones for the dholki, she’d outlined the group’s color coordination with obsessive precision.
“That lengha looks perfect for the mayoun,” her mother said as Hena stepped out in her sixteenth outfit of the morning—a flowing, pale blue floral pattern with a chiffon overlay.
“I personally think a deeper blue might suit her complexion better,” Gita said. “It would still be in keeping with the seaside theme.”
Hena tensed. Giving input on her mother’s wheelchair safety was one thing—but offering opinions on outfits? Even Hena wasn’t weighing in. Her mother had micromanaged her wardrobe all the way from childhood until she’d left for college.
She waited for Ammi to strike, but instead her mother gave Hena an appraising look.
“You might be right,” she said.
Hena glanced at Khala, who shrugged. So miracles did happen. Gita’s easy confidence with her mother was astonishing. She really was the perfect caregiver.
Three hours and thirteen new outfits later, she headed to the counter. Before she could reach for her purse, Gita swerved past her, nearly knocking her over as she wheeled Ammi to the register. Handing Hena’s mother her wallet, she gave Hena an apologetic shrug.
Gita didn’t need to apologize. This was classic Ammi. From the outside, it might look like love—a mother wanting to provide for her daughter. But Hena knew better. It wasn’t about love. It was about control.
Driving back toward the resort, her mother leaned forward from the back seat.
“The bridesmaids are wearing peach today,” her mother said. “Make sure you get yours to the steamer right away.”
“She didn’t need to tack me on to the bridal party,” Hena said.
“Don’t be silly,” Ammi replied. “We don’t want tongues wagging about you two not getting along.”
“Lulu and I are fine.”
“Doesn’t matter. When enough people say a thing is true, it becomes true, doesn’t it? Best not to make too fine a point of the fact that you weren’t invited from the start.”
Ouch. But fair point. Speaking of bridesmaids—
“I was surprised to see Irum,” Hena said. “Someone could have warned me she’d be here.”
“Why wouldn’t she be here?” her mother retorted. “The two girls leaned on each other after the tragedy. You know the poor thing had a complete breakdown after the situation with Nasir?”
“Her poor mother.” Khala clucked her tongue. “That was a difficult time.”
“Irum got it in her head someone was hiding something,” her mother said. “She’d taken to interrogating people at dinners. Accused them of acting suspiciously. It was awful. Hanifa tried to reason with her at a party early on, gently tried to tell her that she was embarrassing herself, and Irum slapped her! They had to admit her into a wellness center. She’s all better now, but it was tough going for a few months.”
“Oh, Irum.” Hena’s voice softened. “I had no idea.”
“Why would you?” her mother retorted. “Seeing how you ran as far from us as you could.”
There it was. The gut punch. She should’ve braced for it—but could anyone, really?
“Frida, come, now,” Khala said, chiding her sister through the rearview mirror before giving Hena a sympathetic look. “It must’ve been jarring to see her.”
“Jarring or not, it’s a wise strategic move to put Irum in a prominent wedding position.” Ammi coughed. “The fewer whispers, the better. Her presence shows there are no hard feelings between our families.”