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

about a mother killed by a serial predator who gets away with it in the end?

Could be I was just screwed up in the head because of my own mother’s disappearance, could be I was a ­psychopath—­that’s what they’d say. I stopped, resting my back against the rough bark of a tree I couldn’t name. My leg pulsed with heat, and my lungs wheezed far more than they should. I’d have to tell Dr. Binchy about that, too.

It took me three more minutes to get going ­again … but I only had a short distance to go. There, hidden off the side of the track, stood a rugged quad bike.

“Thien, you resourceful bastard.”

Grunting, I used the cane for balance as I retrieved the key hidden in the ground exactly one foot from the back tire, under a small fallen branch.

Uninjured, I could’ve hiked to the site in under an hour, but with one leg currently out of commission, I’d have to break the rules and use the vehicle. It wouldn’t be easy going even on that; the trail was made for walkers, not quad bikes.

Rain fell on me in a strange damp kiss as I veered off the path, an act that was never advised unless you knew what you were doing. Search and Rescue couldn’t find you in the dark green if they had no fucking idea where you’d gone.

I wasn’t worried; I’d always possessed an infallible internal compass, and this was my native soil, the playground of my childhood. I went as far as possible on the ­four-­wheeler—­until the forest grew too tangled for the vehicle to get through. Getting off at that point, I grabbed my cane from where I’d hooked it on the handlebar.

The ground would be uneven under my feet from here on out.

I took care as I walked under the canopy and through leaf litter in a silence so pure it hurt the ear. Even the birds were quiet, the insects still. Which was why I sucked in a breath when I stepped out near the site and saw the back of a police anorak, the hood up. The person wearing it turned before I could merge back into the trees.

Constable Neri took in my cane, my hoodie, and said, “You shouldn’t be here.” Her face no longer looked so soft, her eyes edgy and cold.

“Your people are gone.”

“Scene’s still closed off.”

Yellow caution tape fluttered behind her, the ends drooping in the rain. “What’s the point? The rain will destroy anything that used to be under the car if you haven’t already gathered it up.”

Not responding, she turned back to whatever it was that held her attention. Walking to stand beside her, I found myself looking at a mess of broken branches, disturbed soil, and scarred undergrowth.

As if the Jaguar had grown into the forest, just another slumbering ­giant—­only to leave the landscape bleeding when it was extracted by the roots.

The silence here was marred by the faint whoosh of the cars on the wet road high above, but all I saw when I looked up was dark green with just a hint of gray. It took my brain several seconds to process that the gray was the gap in the canopy through which the police had lifted my mother’s car.

“It’s the perfect burial spot,” I murmured. “No one to see, no one to know.”

Constable Neri didn’t turn, didn’t look at me. We stood there as the rain fell, insulated from the outside world.

A rustle as Neri lowered her hood. Tiny droplets immediately formed on her hair. “She was in the passenger seat.”

The words were drops of water falling onto a still pond. Even though I’d already worked it out, I said, “You’re sure?” It was a critical factor, this piece of knowledge.

“Part of her body was still harnessed by the seat belt. There’s no doubt she wasn’t driving.”

I stared at the churned-­up dirt that could tell me nothing. “How far back was the driver’s seat?”

Sliding the hood back up, Neri slipped her hands into her pockets. “Inconclusive at present. Impact caused damage to the mechanism. Forensic mechanics are processing the vehicle.”

“Why the sudden openness?”

“We’re officially launching a homicide inquiry. News will be all over the media by this evening. I’m on my way to brief you and your father.”

Yet she’d come here first because this was where it had all begun. “What else did you find?”

“Why don’t we go to your father’s home so we can speak together?”

“Let’s not.”

“There’s a lot of pain in your book, a deep sense of loss and rage.”

“I’m a good writer.”

Her face was invisible to me, the hood eclipsing her profile. She stepped forward until she was right on the edge of the caution tape.

I followed.

“The car came down that bank.” She pointed to where the road existed high above. “There wasn’t so much growth back then, which is why it didn’t end up wedged against trees higher up.”

“Land would’ve been slippery, muddy that night.”

“Meteorological reports confirm your memory of the conditions.”

Echoes of rain so hard it had stung, thousands of tiny bees all over my body.

“Storm might’ve brought down more trees and foliage after the car came to a rest,” Neri added. “That would’ve further camouflaged ­it—­especially as indications are that it came to a halt in an area of heavy ­undergrowth that would’ve bounced up around it within a matter of days. See there.”

I followed the line of her arm, saw the tough forest plants designed to not be easily crushed. The rain had continued for days after the storm. Which meant no sunlight to spark off the metal until it was too late and the Jaguar was buried.

“Do you think whoever did it expected the car to disappear for ten years?”

“Anyone thinking rationally wouldn’t have left your mother in the passenger seat.”

I should’ve thought of that. A simple move to the driver’s seat could’ve confused matters even had the car been found only days after it’d vanished. Had the killer also fully lowered the windows,