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

Once, she’d thrown together a pizza from ­scratch—­adding fresh green chilis and crushed garlic because “otherwise it will have no flavor”—­and chucked it in the oven. While it cooked, filling the kitchen with scents that made my stomach rumble, we’d played a card game she’d learned as a child. I’d pretended to be bored, but I’d ­been … happy.

Plain old happy.

“I love you, Ari.” She’d always kissed me on the cheek before I headed off to bed. “Tu meri zindaggi hai. Always remember that.”

My throat was thick as I stuffed the sandwich into my mouth. No point trying to carry it upstairs. Instead, I ate it without tasting a bite, then drank an entire bottle of Coke.

“All that cheenee.” My mother shaking her head. “Think what you’re putting into your body.”

“Should I switch to vodka?”

I’d thought I was such a ­smart-­ass, such a fucking wit, but I’d do anything to have my mother alive and nagging me about my soft drink and sweets habit.

Bottle empty, I threw it in the recycling bin, then went upstairs to find some answers.

15

My father had never cleared out my bedroom. I’d expected him to erase all signs of my existence the day I moved out, but he never had, not even after marrying Shanti. I’d never asked him why, but today, I was glad of it. Because I had a giant walk-­in closet that I’d used as a junk room as a kid.

I hadn’t been the tidiest teenage boy, but I hadn’t liked stuff just sitting around, so I’d thrown it all into the closet and shut the door. But it turned out that a closet full of random possessions also made a good hiding place. Flicking on the closet light after I’d closed and locked my bedroom door, I walked over to a shelf right at the ­back—­it took some doing.

I stubbed my good toe on what turned out to be an old game controller, and almost got my cane caught in fishing line. What the hell had I been doing with a fishing pole? Probably one of my aja’s gifts. My father’s father had been a nice enough guy, but more than a little vague. As far as I could remember, he’d never gone fishing in his life.

There.

A battered box that had once held a set of racing cars, complete with a racetrack. My father had given it to me on my tenth birthday, and I had a sudden mental image of him laughing with me while we set up the tracks on a table in my lounge. We’d had a good time that day, all three of us. My mother had brought us snacks and drinks, and my father had kissed her, and for a moment, we’d been a normal family.

That’s why I’d kept the box long after the track broke and the cars lost their wheels.

Bracing myself against the side of the shelf so I could use both hands, I took down the box, and removed the lid. That, I placed back on the shelf. Inside the box was a bunch of teenage boy ­crap—­photos from parties, a key I’d found on the street outside that I’d secretly tried out on every front and back door in the Cul-­de-­Sac, a ­hair-­clip that had belonged to my first real crush.

Used concert tickets, rugby trading cards, coins from random countries.

But under the detritus of a life long gone was a notebook. I’d always been a writer, from the time I was young. I hadn’t suddenly written a novel. I’d written tens of thousands of words before I wrote the first chapter of Blood Sacrifice.

Some of those words, I’d written in this old notebook.

Mostly, I’d used it to roughly sketch out random short stories, or other things that popped into my head, but that ­night … I hadn’t been able to get to sleep. I’d stayed up till dawn waiting for my mother to come home ­again—­it didn’t help that my left leg had hurt like a bitch from some injury I couldn’t now remember. So I’d started doodling, and doodles had led to words.

After removing the notebook I put the open box on its lid.

Wincing, I walked out of the closet. My breath came out in a long exhale as I sat down on my bed. My leg ached and so did the arm I’d been relying on for the cane. I gave myself a few minutes to get beyond the physical pain. I wasn’t about to put any more drugs into my system. The only thing I permitted myself was a hit of sugar from my candy drawer before I picked up the notebook and flicked to my notes from that night.

It’s been hours. I tried to find her. The road was so wet and slippery. He’s still downstairs, cleaning up the “mess” I made. Not my fault. I’m not the one who screamed at her until she left.

That was it. That’s all I’d written.

Stomach churning, I turned page after page in the hunt for more. But there was nothing relevant. Nausea twisted my gut, bile rising. Shoving the top of my forearm against my mouth, I squeezed my eyes shut. What had I done? What mess had I made?

And why couldn’t I remember?

I woke up in an awkward position on top of the blankets. I’d fallen asleep on the notebook and it had imprinted itself into the skin of my chest. The same way the words had imprinted themselves on my brain.

The first thing I did after waking was rip out the damning page. With it crushed in my hand, I hobbled over to the bathroom and, after tearing it to confetti, flushed it down the toilet. My cheeks burned as the water swirled, but I watched to make sure the pipes sucked down every last piece. It took multiple flushes for the water to run clear.

I hadn’t hurt my mother.

Whatever had happened that night, I hadn’t hurt the only person who loved me. The notebook was nothing but