Ties that Kill : An utterly addictive crime thriller filled with twists Read online

  Ties that Kill

  A.M. Saint

  Copyright © 2022 by A.M. Saint

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Mrs. Patel

  2. Sonia

  3. Veer

  4. Rebecca

  5. Alia

  6. Harry

  7. Sonia

  8. Alia

  9. Sonia

  10. Veer

  11. Sonia

  12. Rebecca

  13. Mrs. Patel

  14. Harry

  15. Mrs. Patel

  16. Sonia

  17. Veer

  18. Rebecca

  19. Alia

  20. Sonia

  21. Rebecca

  22. Alia

  23. Harry

  24. Rebecca

  25. Sonia

  26. Alia

  27. Mrs. Patel

  28. Sonia

  29. Veer

  30. Alia

  31. Mrs. Patel

  32. Mrs. Patel

  33. Rebecca

  34. Harry

  35. Veer

  36. Mrs. Patel

  37. Sonia

  38. Rebecca

  39. Alia

  40. Veer

  41. Mrs. Patel

  42. Sonia

  43. Sonia

  44. Harry

  45. Sonia

  46. Alia

  47. Sonia

  48. Sonia

  49. Rebecca

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Jia

  It was the night of Jia Mehta’s wedding. A happy occasion. She was supposed to focus on her new life with Arjun, her fiancé. Instead, she was saturated with fear. The threat pulsing on her phone hung over her head like a sword suspended by a thread. A battalion of trained security guards were keeping an eye on her room, but she felt unsafe. Jia inhaled and exhaled shakily.

  Gazing at the plastered ceiling from which a two-tier glass chandelier cascaded down, she wondered how to quell the fear pulsing in her heart. The drawn-over velvet curtains reminded her where she was. Jia sat up, feeling the weight of her thick Kundan necklace and long uncut diamond and emerald earrings. Reflected in the mirror was a thirty-three-year-old on the cusp of the greatest event of her life— marriage. A red veil covered her hair, her face painted to look like a happy bride. Gold glittered on her ornate wedding dress, the sound of shehnais echoing in the distance. The walls of the 100-year-old French castle echoed with her breaths. Jia’s heart was still thrumming loudly when she stood up.

  A startled breath echoed in the princess suite. Jia looked at the phone clutched in her hand, recalling a string of incidents from the last few months. Her phone vibrated with messages that she didn’t answer. Instead, she swallowed and calmly took stock of the room. The makeup artist had left two hours ago to help her mother. She’d sent the hairstylist away, needing time to think. She visualized the threat that she’d received a month ago.

  Unknown: Your time is up.

  She was going to get married in less than three hours but all she could feel was dread. She recalled her groom Arjun’s face, wondering how he’d react if she told him what was happening to her. They’d met through a matchmaker a year ago, gone on a few dates, and decided to get married. Everything was just the way it was supposed to be— their horoscopes matched, their family backgrounds were compatible, and they were both set to inherit a lot of money. Yet did he really know who she was?

  Jia grabbed the bottle of water sitting on the dresser. The official wedding logo was printed on it— an ornate J&A embossed in gold on the custom label. It looked simple but elegant, just the way she liked it. Her friend Alia had just been in to see her, but she felt shaky. Unsafe. Perhaps it was because of that message.

  Your time is up.

  A shudder passed through her body. Unscrewing the lid, she took a sip of water. A faint scent of almonds wafted through the air, making her wonder if one of the makeup artists had been eating them. The phone the blackmailer had sent was tucked away in her bedroom drawer. It had been delivered to her apartment six months ago. Her phone stared back, filled with contact lists. She hadn’t told anyone except her best friend Alia that she was being blackmailed. And Alia didn’t know the details.

  Jia moved to the window, looking at the glittering scenery from a distance. She felt like a ghost looking down at her wedding. It was distant and transient, like something she’d never touch. Happiness was an illusion, an untouchable fantasy. Nobody knew that behind her glamorous exterior was a frightened girl. Amidst it all, she saw her friends— Alia, Rebecca, and Veer. Next to them sat a face she hadn’t seen in a long time— Sonia Patel.

  She stared at Sonia’s distant form, remembering her love for puzzles. Sonia lived in America and rarely visited because she was busy with her startup. Sonia loved reading mystery novels. What a strange hobby. Yet, she would be the perfect ally.

  Jia glanced at her phone and picked through her contact list to find Sonia’s number. Should she text her? Should she burden her with the truth? Drinking more water, she wondered if jumping into marriage with such a huge secret was a risk. She wasn’t sure she trusted Arjun yet.

  Her fingers moved over the virtual keypad, putting her mental state into words.

  Jia: 120488.

  Would Sonia understand?

  Phone in one hand, Jia drank more and more water, feeling light-headed. The grand wedding set up outside her window made her hesitate. Sonia was morose, seated a few tables from her mother. Mrs. Patel was animatedly chatting with her husband. Alia, her fiancé finance Veer and their friend Rebecca clustered around the American returnee. Her friends laughing down below and taking selfies made her feel even more alone.

  She had been numb for years, unable to feel any pleasure or pain. Would her marriage change that? Was love really redeeming? Jia’s eyes burned circles into the window as the minutes ticked by. She backed off when a weakness seized her body. Thanks to her makeup session, she hadn’t eaten in hours. It must be the hunger getting to her.

  She reached for the low-calorie snacks her mother had left her but before she could open a packet, her gut twisted like a knife had been plunged through it. Only, there was no knife. Jia breathed, believing it to be the effect of hunger, but the pain worsened, degenerating to nausea within minutes. She choked and gasped, her windpipe closing. Her entire body felt sick like clothes being wrung through a washing machine. Her head was dizzy, throbbing painfully. She looked around, wondering what had suddenly happened. Seconds ago, she had been fine.

  Jia distanced the water bottle, looking down at the colorless liquid that smelled of almonds.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Her blackmailer’s final words condensed before her watering eyes.

  Your time is up.

  She threw the bottle away. It landed in the dustbin just as her knees gave out. Consciousness was slipping away from her grasp, and she desperately wanted to hold on to it.

  Not now. Not when everybody was waiting out there. This was the biggest day of her life. Today was the day she was supposed to escape this living hell. She reached for the door, but her body refused to cooperate, pulling her down.

  In her final moment, she grabbed her phone, determined to do whatever she could to survive. Ji
a tried calling the emergency number, but she didn’t know what it was in France. The phone felt like cotton in her hands, letters blurring as her mind blanked out. The message that she was about to send flashed on the screen. Through blurry eyes, she pressed the green ‘send’ arrow. She didn’t know whether the message went or not because she lost control of her body right then.

  A knock registered in the distant shores of her mind, relief flooding whatever was left of her consciousness. Shuffling. Jingling noises. A card key inserted into the lock.

  It opened seconds later. A shadow materialized. Dread mixed with blurriness, knowing the end was near. The shadow took a step toward Jia.

  She never got to see who it was.

  1

  Mrs. Patel

  Present

  Mrs. Patel felt a strange sensation in her stomach. Her husband would call it acidity, but she knew what it was—jealousy. Though she’d never admit that aloud.

  It was a gray morning in London and Mrs. Patel was sipping tea in her drawing-room in Kensington, unwinding from her busy week. A video of Jia Mehta’s extravagant wedding played on the TV screen, making her fingers tighten on the delicate golden handle of her porcelain teacup. Details of the event disturbed her. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Mehta, Jia’s mother, was one of her least favorite people in the world. As she watched pictures of the glittering wedding venue flash on the screen, Mrs. Patel decided that she needed something better than a French castle and Manish Malhotra outfits for her daughter’s wedding. The woman had gone on and on about Jia’s wedding during their weekly get-together six months ago. It was supposedly the most expensive wedding of the year— a feat she aspired for. Unfortunately, it hadn’t ended well.

  British-Indian Heiress Commits Suicide

  Subtitles covered the bottom of the screen. There were pictures of Jia from the day before her wedding. The channels said she’d poisoned herself because she was against the wedding. Though Mrs. Patel knew that wasn’t the case, she felt secretly thrilled at the sight of Vaani Mehta’s name being dragged through the mud. Though it was sad her daughter had to die for that to happen. Mrs. Patel didn’t have anything against Jia. She pitied the poor girl for having such a self-absorbed mother.

  Thank god Mrs. Mehta had vanished to New York following her daughter’s death. Mrs. Patel hated making small talk with her. Vaani Mehta only cared about herself. She loved to show off, sometimes at the cost of other people’s comfort. Look what that had led to.

  A shadow next to her leaned in to grab the remote. She saw her daughter Alia looking down at her, frowning. “I don’t know why you insist on watching the news in the morning. It’s always depressing.” There was a frown of disapproval on Alia’s face. Alia and Jia had been best friends and Jia’s death hit her daughter hard. Though Alia had returned to her usual self, Mrs. Patel knew that she still mourned the death of her friend. A maid was angrily summoned. She quickly located the remote and switched off the TV, returning the drawing room to its natural serene state. With neutral-toned walls and a designer honeycomb chandelier spilling from the plastered ceiling, the drawing-room looked like it had been plucked out of the Architectural Digest magazine. The white sofas and contrasting gray and black cushions completed the clean, modern look. A maid stood behind her wearing a black dress with a white apron and neatly arranged a row of pastries on the table.

  “I’m going to work,” Alia said, dressed in a beige suit with a black coat pulled over it. Alia had an oval face with almond-shaped eyes. Her mahogany skin was smooth, her full dark pink lips curving down in a frown. Thanks to the herbal oil Mrs. Patel had bought in India, Alia’s raven hair shone like a shampoo model’s. She was proud of her daughter and soon, the whole world would see how special she was. She’d made sure to organize the grandest wedding, selecting only the best clothes, jewelry, decoration, and venue to present Alia in the best light.

  “It’s Saturday,” Mrs. Patel said. “You’re supposed to be getting ready for your wedding. What about your hair and skin appointments? I booked a full body massage and 24-karat gold facial session for you. We don’t want you looking anything less than perfect at your engagement. All your cousins will be there, you know. I’ll never hear the end of it from your aunts if you look dowdy.”

  “I won’t look dowdy. We have a professional stylist, makeup artist, and image team to make sure I look like a million bucks.” Alia glanced at her phone which continuously pinged. All she thought about was work. Just like her husband. “Besides, it’s just my engagement, not the real wedding. Shouldn’t you be watching your blood pressure instead of stressing about my spa appointments?”

  “If only,” Mrs. Patel said. “After that dreadful event in Paris,” she paused. “I have to make sure everything goes well.” Her daughter’s forehead creased. Her phone rang and she was torn between moving toward the door and drowning in the dreadful memory of her friend’s death. “Don’t you worry. Leave everything to mummy. Mallika and I will work our magic.”

  Mrs. Patel beamed, leaning into the plush sofa. Her daughter Alia was getting married in three months and they were having a little engagement leading up to the event. A little engagement with five hundred people. She leaned back on the sofa; glad everything was under control. Giving Alia a grand wedding had always been her dream, especially after she’d spent the last year hearing Mrs. Mehta talk about Jia’s wedding. They had decided to have Alia’s engagement in London since almost everybody they knew lived there. Mallika, the wedding planner, had been working her magic, as usual. Mrs. Madan, Veer’s mother, had come to like her as well.

  Alia left, abandoning her to the silent room. Mrs. Patel watched the light filtering through the glass window, relieved to be alone.

  Her phone rang and she immediately identified the caller as ‘Aditi Singh-Jones’. Aditi was one of her friends and the heiress to a textile empire. Her daughter Rebecca and Alia were childhood friends, which is how Mrs. Patel knew her. Rebecca was a shy, quiet girl whom Mrs. Patel didn’t find objectionable. Unlike Jia Mehta who was gregarious, troublesome, and opinionated, just like her mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Geeta, is that you?” Aditi said. They spoke about what they did all week before arriving at the uncomfortable topic of Jia’s mother’s whereabouts.

  “Have you heard from Vaani Mehta?” Aditi asked as if reading her thoughts. “I heard she’s visiting family in New York after…after what happened in France. By visiting I mean she’s staying there. It must be devastating. I can’t even imagine losing my daughter so young. I couldn’t believe it when they announced the bride was dead. It must be a joke, I thought.”

  Mrs. Patel muttered agreements though she was relieved Mrs. Mehta was gone. Vaani Mehta’s father owned a famous hotel next to the sweet shop Mrs. Patel’s parents had owned back in Mumbai. They’d been rivals since elementary school, competing to get the top grades. Thankfully, Mrs. Mehta’s family moved away after they entered university school. Mrs. Patel thought the worst of her life was over until she met Vaani Mehta again in London. It was then that she knew there would be no escaping the past. Alia’s wedding would be the nail in the coffin of their rivalry. She would succeed where the other woman had failed.

  “Poor thing,” Aditi went on. “Jia must’ve been really unhappy with the marriage if she decided to commit suicide at thirty-three. Didn’t they say she was stressed or something? She should’ve spoken to one of us. There’s nothing a good heart-to-heart cannot fix.”

  Mrs. Patel seriously doubted a heart-to-heart could’ve fixed Jia Mehta’s Bipolar Disorder. The French detectives later found out that she’d been seeing a therapist. Her visits had stopped a few years before the wedding. But she had started seeing another therapist four months before the wedding, possibly due to a relapse. In her generation, nobody ever got depressed or anxious. It was the illness of the idle. These young kids with their unrealistic standards couldn’t handle the slightest amount of pressure.

  “Yes, how tragic,” she said. “The po
lice said she took her own life using a military suicide pill. Never heard of such a thing. Is it even legal to buy that stuff?”

  “It isn’t. The detectives suspect she ordered it from the dark web.” Aditi chimed in, trying to show off her knowledge. Mrs. Patel had no idea what a ‘dark web’ was, but she didn’t ask. As if reading her thoughts, Aditi explained. “It’s a segment of the internet. A secret segment. You can access it without anybody figuring out your identity. People use it to exchange secret information.”

  “And buy banned substances, apparently,” she finished.

  Mrs. Patel recalled the front-page image that Alia showed her. Some news channels had managed to get hold of a picture of Jia’s death. She remembered the picture of an extra cyanide pill lying next to Jia, her back facing the ceiling as she lay on the floor with her stomach on the ground. No suicide note was found but the circumstances led the police to believe that she had taken her own life due to depression. Jia had visited a therapist shortly before her wedding and though she hadn’t been receiving any medication for her condition, reports of her PTSD and Bipolar diagnosis from several years ago were published. It had relapsed a few weeks before the wedding. Really, the media managed to get hold of everything these days.