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

if Elei allowed Shanti to believe her home situation was far worse than the reality, just so Shanti would feel comfortable with her. Then again, my father gave Shanti expensive gifts, too. It was for show, didn’t mean she was valued.

“Mum’s impressed you write books,” Alice explained. “She said you must be very clever.” Creases in her cheeks. “I enjoyed Blood Sacrifice, but did you have to kill off the brother? He was a hottie and struck serious sparks with the investigator.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question. Even lovers of murder had a ­well-­concealed romantic bone or two. Probably buried in the basement under two feet of concrete. “All must be sacrificed for the plot.” I drank a quarter of the coffee. “So your mum doesn’t speak any English?”

“She speaks a lot more than she lets on. I think she just likes being able to blank people.” A grin. “I’m taking her to her local Samoan Ladies’ Chess Meet in an hour.”

“No work?”

“Night off.” She looked at me over her mug. “My mother also said she saw a police officer and a man in a suit at your door this morning. Everything all right?”

I could see Elei’s room from my balcony, but hadn’t realized she could see down into our front yard. “They found my mother’s Jaguar in the bush not far from here—with her inside.”

A loud smash of sound, pieces of crockery and coffee flying everywhere. Alice stared at me, ignoring the stains on her designer workout gear. “Aarav, no.” Both hands flew to her mouth, her nails short but painted a hot pink.

“I wish it wasn’t true, but it is.” I took in the coffee dripping off her cupboards, the frozen way she stood, and wondered. “You were good friends with my mother, weren’t you?” The third in the triad. Diana and Nina first, with younger, more gauche Alice adopted in later. The junior party to their years of experience.

“I’d say it was more she took me under her wing.” Looking around, she groaned. “This’ll take forever to clean up.” She got busy picking up the shards, while using copious amounts of paper towels to wipe up the mess.

Her ­Lycra-­covered butt waved in my line of sight as she worked and I was certain it was deliberate, an attempt to distract. Unlike with Diana, Alice had never seen me as a child. I’d already been a tall and strong thirteen when she and her family moved into the Cul-­de-­Sac.

But I was beyond distractions.

I’d been on the verge of asking if I could talk to Elei, find out what she’d seen that rainy night so long ago, but I was no longer sure I wanted Alice in the room when I asked the question. Not that Elei was likely to give me anything if she’d kept quiet all these years, but I had to ask.

Shanti. I’d use Shanti to get to her.

I’d use anyone and everyone to uncover the reason why my mother was nothing but decaying bones.

My father’s black BMW was missing by the time I returned home, but Shanti’s white Audi sat in the drive next to my rental. She never put it in the garage herself; she was scared of scratching the expensive car. Given her way, she’d probably have chosen a cheap runabout, but Ishaan Rai had an image to uphold.

Some would say he’d given her freedom by supporting her in her quest to get a license, but they didn’t see how Shanti sat hunched in the driver’s seat, her hands ­white-­knuckled on the steering wheel. I’d never known her to go anywhere but to the local shops, or to the school to drop off or pick up my half sister. If my father actually cared about her, he’d have hired a ­driver—­it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it.

“Shanti,” I said, after tracking her down in the kitchen, where she was turning off the stove. “You want me to pick up Pari?”

Her face lit up as it did every time I made the offer. “Oh, Aarav, do you mind?”

“Of course not. Should I go now?”

“Yes, their bus should be back from the trip by the time you arrive.”

“Traffic’ll be heavy coming back, so don’t expect us early.”

Shanti gave me a secretive smile. “I understand.”

I smiled back, both of us aware that I’d be taking my half sister out for doughnuts or ice cream on the way back. Just before I left, I said, “Where’s Dad? Meeting?”

“He had a phone call and he left. He didn’t sound happy.”

Nothing new for my father there, I thought as I walked out to the sedan. After settling myself into the vehicle, I headed out. Leonid and Anastasia were at the bottom of their ­drive—­situated right before the ­gates—­talking with Leonid’s brother. My father called the family the Russian Mafia.

Given Leonid’s interesting tattoos and the people who dropped by his place, my father might be right. Or, since Leonid had a fair dinkum Aussie accent and one of his visitors had been a face I recognized as a major Australian mogul, he could just be a smart businessman who enjoyed ink and had interesting friends. Personally, I liked the way the ­thirty-­something-­year-­old put his twins in a stroller and took them for daily walks.

More importantly for me, the family were recent transplants to the Cul-­de-­Sac, having purchased their property from the estate of old Mr. Jenks only three years prior. Mr. Jenks had been ­eighty-­seven at the time of my mother’s disappearance, and frail even then.

Today, none of the three raised their hands in hello, too deep into an intense conversation. Maybe I’d throw reality and logic to the side, and write a short story about a Mafia family forced to relocate to suburban New Zealand who end up killing the hit man sent after them. They then have to hide his body before their neighbors arrive for a barbeque.

Done right, it’d be pure black comedy ­gold … and fuck! I hadn’t realized I was