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

a distraction, the dramatic angst of a ­sixteen-­year-­old who hadn’t yet learned the art of subtlety.

Ping.

The alert from my phone had me walking back into the room to glance at the screen. It said: Appointment with Dr. Binchy, 10 a.m.

The last thing I needed right now was to lose time in a surgeon’s office, but it would be even worse to miss the appointment and screw up my leg any further. Leaving the reminder on the home screen, I walked into the bathroom. I managed a shower by sitting on the stool Shanti had put in there and using the handheld shower attachment. Then I got dressed.

Remembering something else I’d glimpsed in the notebook, I picked it up and flicked through it until I found the entry. My eyes narrowed. I’d almost forgotten that incident, but now the ­voice—­hard and male and hot with ­anger—­was vivid in my mind.

And that voice wasn’t my father’s.

Gears turning, I decided to hide the notebook back in the closet, then headed downstairs. My sister was at the kitchen counter quietly eating her cereal.

Slipping in beside her, I took the coffee Shanti held out with a smile. Not my favorite source of caffeine, but it’d do in the morning.

“Good morning.” I tugged on one of Pari’s pigtails.

Her head stayed down.

When I looked at Shanti, she gave me a tight smile, then prepared another cup of coffee. Black, two sugars. My father’s preference. When she left to deliver it, I took the chance to send a couple of texts to my friend Thien. We’d met at university, where I was kicking around doing a ­half-­hearted attempt at an arts degree, and he wasn’t doing much of ­anything—­though he’d honed the skill of getting people what they wanted.

Today, I asked him for a favor, offering him three hundred bucks for his trouble.

Four, he messaged back. It’s goddamn raining.

Thien was a friend, but he was also mercenary as fuck. We got along great.

I didn’t try to speak to Pari until after we were in the car on the way to school. “You heard Dad last night, huh?”

A nod I caught out of the corner of my eye.

“He was drunk and you know he gets extra mean when he’s drunk.” Never would I leave my sister ­unprotected—­even if that protection was by knowledge. “Stay out of his way when he gets like that.” He’d never laid a hand on me, but I was male. I didn’t know if he’d offer his daughter the same courtesy.

“After I move back out, you call me if he ever starts hurting either you or your mum.” Shanti had never given any indication that my father was physically violent, but Shanti also believed that a husband should be treated as a god.

Yeah, my father had definitely gotten what he wanted the second time around.

“How come he’s so mean and you’re so nice?”

The plaintive question had a laugh building in the back of my throat. Maybe my mother hadn’t been the only person who’d ever loved me. Stopping in front of the school, I thought about what to say that wouldn’t shatter her illusions. She had the right nickname, my kid sister. Pari, pronounced close to how the French pronounced “Paris,” had a fantastical meaning: fairy, sprite.

It suited her far better than her full name, Parineeti. And even my twisted soul couldn’t bear to dull the sweet magic that glowed inside her. For Pari, I’d wear another self, the self that was a good, caring brother. “Because I made a decision to never be like him.” True enough; she didn’t have to know I hadn’t wholly succeeded.

Paige’s terrified face flashed into my mind, bloodless, eyes stark. “You need help, Aarav. The rage you have inside ­you … it’s poisonous and it scares me.”

“Are you like your mum?” My sister’s high voice merged with the memory of Paige’s trembling one. “I want to be like my mum.”

I swallowed to wet a dry throat. “Yes, I’m like my mum.” Full of secrets and lies and a broken ability to love. “Go on. You don’t want to be late.”

I watched after her until she disappeared safely behind the school gates. Then I drove out, heading back to my mother’s grave through a misty rain. But I didn’t go along the main ­road—­I turned off into a rough parking area in front of a sign advising that I was at the start of an open walking track. Beside it stood a large sign warning trampers about kauri dieback disease and stating the attendant rules.

Flipping up the hood of the sweatshirt I’d put on before I left the house, I got out into the cold, cane in hand.

The outside world ceased to exist within minutes, the forest closing its wet green arms around me. Moss crawled up the mass of tangled branches. Those branches created bushland that would shred me if I tried to blunder through. Above me hung the fronds of a huge tree fern dotted with beads of water.

Hard to believe I remained in the heart of the country’s biggest city.

The farther I walked, the bigger the trees, their canopies touching the bruised sky.

People got lost in this dark and cool landscape even with the signs dotted around. Then there were those who came to the “Waitaks” to bury their secrets. I’d been nineteen, twenty, when a visiting speaker at the university made the dry comment that more bodies were buried in the Waitākere Ranges than in most cemeteries.

I’d been far more intrigued by that comment than by the criminal investigation techniques she’d been describing as part of her open-­to-­all guest lecture. My ensuing questions had made her raise an eyebrow and joke that she might have to report me to the police for suspicious behavior.

I’d sent her a copy of Blood Sacrifice after it first came out.

My debut novel began with body parts found in a city forest.

16

I wondered if the cops were analyzing every word I’d ever written. What were the chances I’d randomly write