out that Rachel knows this secret about my accident, and that’s the real reason she wanted her killed!”
“No, no! That’s not true!” Shaoyen cried.
“How do you feel now, Mother? The big secret is out, and your worst nightmare is coming true. Our family name will be ruined just like you thought it would—not by Rachel or by me, but when the police come and haul you off to jail!”
Carlton stormed out of the house, leaving his mother on the floor of the library and his father seated next to her with his head buried in his hands.
* * *
* Mandarin for “What the fuck are you saying?”
11
BUKIT BROWN CEMETERY
SINGAPORE
Every year, on the anniversary of their father’s death, Shang Su Yi and her brother, Alfred, would visit the grave where their parents were buried. Su Yi’s immediate family and a few close relatives would traditionally gather at Tyersall Park for breakfast before heading to the cemetery, but this year everyone met at Bukit Brown first. Astrid arrived early, coming straight from dropping Cassian off at Far Eastern Kindergarten, and hardly anyone was around as she strolled through Singapore’s oldest cemetery.
Since the cemetery had stopped accepting burials in 1970, the forest had grown unchecked around it, making this final resting place of Singapore’s founding fathers a lush, Edenic nature preserve for some of the rarest plants and wildlife on the island. Astrid loved meandering and admiring the ornate graves that were unlike anywhere else in the world. The larger, more ostentatious Chinese-style tombs were built into the sides of gentle sloping mounds, and some were as big as palace gatehouses, boasting their own tiled courtyards where mourners could gather, while others were decorated with colorful Peranakan tiles and life-size statues depicting Sikh guards, Quanyin, or other Chinese deities. Astrid began reading the gravestones, and every now and then, she recognized the name of a pioneer Singaporean: Tan Kheam Hock, Ong Sam Leong, Lee Choo Neo, Tan Ean Kiam, Chew Boon Lay. They were all here.
At precisely ten o’clock, a small convoy of cars invaded the quiet of the cemetery. At the front was the 1990s-era Jaguar Vanden Plas ferrying Astrid’s mother, Felicity Leong—Su Yi’s eldest child—and her husband, Harry, followed by the small Kia Picanto driven by Astrid’s brother Henry Leong Jr.* Then came the vintage black-and-burgundy Daimler with Su Yi’s younger daughter, Victoria, who rode with Rosemary T’sien, Lillian May Tan, and the Bishop of Singapore. A few minutes later, a black Mercedes 600 Pullman with tinted windows pulled up, and before the humongous limousine had come to a full stop, the middle doors flung open and two Gurkha guards jumped out.
Alfred Shang, a short, portly man in his late seventies with a careful comb-over of gray hair, emerged from the car, squinting in the bright morning light even with his rimless sunglasses on. He helped his older sister, Su Yi, out of the car, followed by her two lady’s maids in elegant iridescent peacock-blue silk dresses. Su Yi was dressed in a cream-colored blouse, a thin saffron-colored cardigan, and light brown trousers. With her round tortoiseshell sunglasses, straw cloche hat, and brown suede gloves, she looked like she was ready for a day of gardening. Su Yi caught sight of Bishop See Bei Sien and muttered angrily to Alfred, “Victoria invited that busybody bishop again when I specifically told her not to! Father is going to spin in his grave!”
After a flurry of quick greetings, the family made their way along one of the more manicured paths, forming a rather stately procession as Su Yi led the way, walking under an embroidered yellow silk umbrella held by one of the Gurkha guards. The tomb of Shang Loong Ma was on the highest hill, a secluded spot completely encircled by a thicket of trees. The tombstone itself was not particularly monumental compared to some of the others, but the large circular plaza of glazed tiles and the exquisite bas-reliefs depicting a scene from The Romance of the Three Kingdoms on the tomb made it uniquely beautiful. Awaiting them at the grave were several Buddhist monks in dark brown robes, and in front of the plaza, a marquee had been set up with a long banquet table that gleamed with silver and the pale yellow nineteenth-century Wedgwood service that Su Yi always used for al fresco entertaining.
“Oh my goodness! Are we lunching here?” Lillian May Tan exclaimed, eyeing the fat suckling pig with a cherry in its mouth and the line of