Quiet in Her Bones Singh, Nalini (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖

It fit beautifully under my hand. “This is really nice.”

“Belonged to my pa. Bring it back when you’re done and we’ll be square. Righto, Maggie, my love, time to murder one of Lily’s cakes and horrify the neighbors.”

The two headed off down the street on a burst of shared laughter, leaving me with crutches, a cane, and a coffee. After some thinking, I hooked the cane on one of the crutches, and managed to get going again. At least it wasn’t far.

I’d forgotten about the red bike by the time I reached the house, my head heavy in a way that had become familiar since the accident. Leaving the crutches inside the front hallway and abandoning the coffee on a nearby table meant for flowers, I used the cane to support myself as I stumbled up the stairs. I should’ve taken a ­ground-­floor bedroom instead of my old suite but I’d never been good at doing what I should.

Pain was a metallic taste in my mouth by the time I made it upstairs, my head in a vise. Hand trembling, I knocked over several of the pill bottles on my bedside table before I finally got my hands on the right one and unscrewed the lid.

Two minutes later, the lights went out.

I woke to the ringing of my cellphone. Groaning, my mouth thick with the residue of chemical sleep, I tried to pull it out of my pocket, my fingers feeling fat and sluggish. The sound had stopped by the time I dug it out. I blinked to clear bleary eyes, then stared at the name on the screen. “Shit.”

Dropping my head back on the bed, I grabbed the bottle of water on my bedside table and wet my throat before calling Dr. Jitrnicka’s office. “Apologies for missing my appointment,” I told the receptionist, polite because being polite to her cost me nothing.

“You understand we have a policy of charging you if you don’t cancel at least four hours ahead of time?”

“That’s fine.” Money wasn’t an issue; the boy who’d mowed lawns to buy his mother a cheap silver ring could’ve now afforded to give her diamonds.

“A moment please. Dr. Jitrnicka would like to speak to you.”

A click before the call connected. “Aarav.” The doctor’s rich baritone filled the line. “How are you? It’s not like you to miss an appointment now that we’re making such progress.”

If anyone knows who I am beneath the masks, it’s Dr. Jitrnicka. We’ve been “working together” for the past six months. He sees under my skin, to all the shit I hide from the world. “The police came. They found her.” He’d know which her; there was only one woman about whom we talked in the therapy sessions.

“I see,” he said, using one of those “let me think” phrases on which he was an expert. “You must have conflicted feelings.”

“Not alive. Dead. She’s dead and has been since the night she disappeared.”

The pause was long and filled with quiet breathing.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the doctor said at last. “I know you’ve always hoped she’d return home and you’d get to speak again. If you want to do a phone session, this time is yours.”

“No, not now.” I wasn’t ready to dig into my emotions when it came to my mother’s bones. “I’ll book another appointment.”

“Let’s do that now.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “Aarav, this could be a major trigger for your drinking. Have you built the support structure we discussed? Are those people around you, ready to offer their help?”

I wanted to bark out a laugh and say sure, I have my father, that pillar of a man. “It won’t be a problem,” I said instead. “Accident turned out to be a blessing in ­disguise—­I can’t drink while on these meds. Since I have no intention of ending up back in hospital, I’ll follow the rules. I want to drive my Porsche again.”

“The repairs are complete then? My impression was that the damage was fairly major.”

Sitting up in bed, I stared at the wall ahead of me, the painting that hung there a remnant of my teenage years. Something made me say, “I’m thinking positive.”

“That’s a good thing. Take care of ­yourself—­and call me night or day. I don’t mind the interruption and will call back as soon as I can if I’m in session at the time. We’ve done some good work and we can’t allow this turn of events to jeopardize that.”

“Sure, Doc.”

After hanging up, I continued to look at the wall opposite. It was a pale gray color that Shanti had apparently chosen after her marriage to my father. Bull. Shit. Shanti didn’t so much as say boo without my father’s permission. If she’d had any input, it was because he hadn’t been interested.

But all I could see right then was the sleek beauty of my customized Porsche. A Porsche that was currently sitting safe in the secure garage of my city apartment. Dr. Jitrnicka had to be mistaken. I wouldn’t have forgotten that my pride and joy was in for major repairs. It’d be like forgetting my own head. Even highly intelligent doctors had ­off-­days, and I couldn’t be the only one of his patients who’d had an accident.

He’d confused us, that was all.

10

Rubbing my face, I used the cane to get to my feet, then hobbled over to the bathroom. It was after four by the time I emerged, having managed a quick wake-­up shower. My eyes went to the slim black laptop I kept on top of a desk in front of the balcony sliders.

A pile of printed pages sat next to the laptop.

That was one of my ­things—­printing out pages as I went. I’d mentioned it in an interview after my first book hit it big, saying it gave “weight to the evanescent nature of my ideas” and now half the literary world thought I was a wanker and a poser.

I might be, but I also just liked to