Chapter 3

The rebirth party was half over when Mrs. Abbott finally arrived, late.

The moment she came in, she took Neema's hand and drew a red envelope out of her brocade purse.

"Neema, there's something I want to talk to you about."

"You saved Stan, so from now on don't call me Auntie."

"Call me Mom."

Neema's eyes went red, and she called out "Mom" in a bright, clear voice before throwing herself into Mrs. Abbott's arms.

Mrs. Abbott held her, her whole face creasing into a smile.

"That word is worth more to me than the one from my daughter-in-law."

I'd offered my welcome tea last week.

Mrs. Abbott hadn't even touched the cup.

She said the custom back home was that a new bride's tea had to sit for three years, until she'd proven her temperament, before anyone would drink it.

So the rule was just a bamboo basket.

Who it held depended on her mood.

The drinks went around a few times.

A cousin, his face flushed from drinking, hung on to Stan and wouldn't let go.

"Stan, at your wedding last week, you were toasting the tables and then you just vanished halfway through."

"Our table waited half an hour for you. Where did you go?"

Stan smiled and said nothing.

Neema answered for him.

"He was outside, having a wedding with me."

"Oh, it's the custom back home. Our benefactor's very first groom in this life has to be him."

"The bouquet was thrown, the ring went on, the vows were made—we didn't leave a single step out."

She smiled, perfectly at ease.

"Anyway, the bride was still doing the toasts, so there was no rush for him to walk back in once we'd finished."

The hand holding my teacup suddenly had no strength in it.

For that half hour, I'd stood below the stage with a glass in my hand.

Relatives kept asking me where the groom was.

I told them he'd gone to move the car.

I was the one who drank down every glass on that table for him, alone, and then went home and threw up until dawn.

"Neema."

Someone leaned over, cup in hand.

"That donation of yours back then—which hospital did you have it done at, again?"

Neema was just about to speak.

"Oh, come now, why bring up hospitals on such a happy day!"

Mrs. Abbott slapped a hand on the table, laughing as she cut him off.

"I'll say this for Stan, the boy has a conscience."

Mrs. Abbott went on, pleased with herself. "He even put the wedding house—"

Stan coughed.

"Mom."

"What is there to be afraid of!"

Mrs. Abbott waved him off.

"It's not like there are any outsiders here."

"The property deed has only Neema's name on it!"

"That wife of yours is such a small-minded thing, she wouldn't understand even if you told her."

My hand on the wooden railing tightened, inch by inch.

That house.

From the plumbing and wiring to every last floor tile, I'd overseen it for a whole year.

No wonder Stan never let me touch the property deed on the day it was handed over.

No wonder she'd had that spare key cut with such a clear conscience.

I sent my lawyer a message.

Pull the property registration records for me.

I sat on the couch in the private room for a long time, until my hands and feet went cold.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was Stan.

Neema had too much to drink, so I'm staying to look after her. I won't be coming home tonight.

A few seconds later, another one came.

I'll go with you to visit Mom tomorrow, to make it up.

I let out a cold laugh.

A death anniversary could be made up.

The half hour he'd vanished at the wedding could be made up.

A little coaxing, a little going in circles, and dawn would break, and life would go on the same as always.

He probably thought that right now I was clutching the blankets and sulking.

Waiting, wide-eyed, for him to come home and smooth things over.

I dialed the manor front desk on the internal line.

"Could you check tonight's room bookings for me."

Before long, the answer came back.

"Two king rooms were booked under Mr. Weiss's name."

"But ten minutes ago, Mr. Weiss checked out of the one next door."

I was quiet for two seconds, then walked to the front desk.

"Give me the master key card."

I held the card tight.

I didn't rush upstairs—I went down a floor first.

I stopped in front of Mrs. Abbott's door.

When Mrs. Abbott saw it was me, her whole face went sour.

"Why won't you stop haunting me—"

I held my phone up in front of her.

"Come with me."

"Let me show you exactly how big a bed your son and your newly adopted daughter need."

"To sleep the word 'innocent' out clean."