When Vera stands to give Emma a second helping of noodles, Julia mutters, “I’ve never seen her eat so well before. Usually I have to spoon-feed her, and she’ll be screaming and throwing the food everywhere.”
Oliver raises his eyebrows at her. “I guess not even two-year-olds can say no to Vera,” he says under his breath.
She laughs, and it’s a familiar laugh. For a moment, she looks just like the teen he was best friends with so many years ago. “I can’t imagine anyone saying no to Vera,” she whispers.
Oliver’s about to answer when he feels something wet tap his forearm. He turns to see that Emma has placed a noodle across his arm.
“Eat,” Emma says in that very serious way that only two-year-olds can muster. “ ’S good for you.”
“Oh my god, Emms,” Julia says, wiping her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” And it really, truly is. It’s the first time Oliver’s received a gift from his niece, and he does not intend to refuse it. He pinches the noodle between his thumb and index finger and says, “Hey, thanks, Emma.” Then he slurps it up with exaggerated noise and goes, “Mm-mm. You’re right, that was really good.”
Emma nods solemnly, and Oliver feels a fierce wave of love for this little kid who looks so much like Julia. It tears him up that he’s already missed out on so much of her life. Then Emma grabs another noodle with her bare hand and places it on Oliver’s open palm. “Eat more. ’S good for you.”
Maybe he should’ve thought twice about slurping up that first noodle.
* * *
• • •
Oliver can’t remember the last time he’s felt so stuffed. Happy too. Full and satisfied and warm. Emma went into a food coma after her third bowl of noodles, and Julia picked her up and put her in her bedroom, so now there’s just the four adults plus Vera, gathered around the coffee table. They’re all wearing slightly glazed expressions, their brains only half functioning after the feast.
And that’s when Vera goes, “Okay, so now we talk real business. Which one of you here kill Marshall?”
It seems as though everyone not only stops talking but stops breathing as well. The air in the room freezes and it’s dead silent. Then someone coughs. Riki. He gives a choked laugh before clearing his throat. “Vera, come on.”
Vera deadpans him. “You think I’m not being serious? Why?”
“Wha—” Riki gestures helplessly. “Because—I don’t know, it’s ridiculous. And it’s kind of disrespectful of you to go to his widow’s house and accuse someone of murder?”
“Disrespectful?” Vera blinks, as though she’s just been slapped, and Oliver gets it. In Chinese culture, respect only flows in one direction, from the younger to the older, like a river. The older generation doesn’t owe the younger ones respect; if any is given, it is done so out of kindness and generosity, not necessity. So for someone as young as Riki to tell Vera that she’s crossed a line is inconceivable. Oliver is so torn. Part of him, of course, agrees that Vera has indeed crossed a line, coming into Julia’s house and openly accusing one of them of killing Marshall. But the other part of him, the one that’s been raised by two very traditional Chinese parents, is squirming with discomfort.
Before he can respond, Vera turns to Julia and takes her hand. “My dear,” Vera says, “I am sorry. I don’t disrespect you. I just want to solve your husband’s murder, is okay?”
“Uh . . .” Julia’s mouth opens and closes, and no words come out.
“Maybe you should leave it up to the police,” Oliver suggests.
Vera shoots him such a withering look that he feels his soul shrivel up and hide. “Oliver, I already tell you, the police are useless. Now,” she says, turning back to Julia, “you don’t have to worry, okay? I will do everything.” She squeezes Julia’s hand before letting go. Then she stands, chin raised high and chest expanding. Her aura fills the room. “One of you,” she intones, her glare sweeping across the group, “is Marshall killer.”
White-hot fear surges through Oliver’s entire body.
“What makes you say that?” Sana says. Oliver can’t help but notice that Sana’s hands are clasped together so tightly that her knuckles are white.
Vera starts walking around the living room. “I have deduce that the killer will come back to my teahouse to look for something.”
It feels as though ants are crawling down Oliver’s back. “What?”
“Doesn’t matter what,” Vera says. “All four of you have never been to my teahouse, but after Marshall die, you all pop up, one by one.” Her sharp gaze stabs into each one of them, and they all shrink back. “Now, we all know that Marshall is not good person. No offense, Julia.”
Julia, who’s been staring slack-jawed, manages a small shrug. Oliver isn’t quite sure what the shrug is meant to convey.
“That means you all probably have reason to kill him. So now, I am going to ask you, where are you on the night that Marshall is murder?”
They’re all gaping at Vera now, torn between shock and anger. “We don’t have to tell her anything,” Riki says. He looks at the others desperately. “We don’t.”
Sana nods slowly. Oliver wills his heart to stop thumping. Wills his brain not to go there. To the night that Marshall died. But, of course, it hurtles there with lightning speed. He sees what he did. The drugs in his hand. The way they rattled. All their lives, Marshall got away with everything. He just wanted to make sure Marshall wouldn’t get away this time. Payback for all the times throughout their lives that Marshall slithered away, snakelike, out of trouble. He almost throws up then and there.
“It was a weird day,” someone says.
Oliver’s head snaps up. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up and register that Julia is speaking. Everyone is staring, wide-eyed, at Julia, sweet, fierce Julia who was always so full of wild ideas about traveling everywhere and taking in as much of the world as she could. And Oliver wants to tell her to stop talking, to protect herself, but as usual, he stays quiet.
“Marshall and I had split up the day before,” Julia continues in a shaky voice. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. When she finally looks up from her lap, her eyes land immediately on Oliver’s, and it’s as though she’s talking to him alone, just like the old times. “That’s why all of his things were packed up. He’d found an apartment, he said, and it was—it was amicable.” Julia blinks hard, like she’s trying to keep herself from crying.
“Hmm,” Vera says, massaging her chin. “He just walk out?”