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

It was empty.

No black Porsche, nothing but a void.

Cheeks hot, I turned into the space, then got out and made my way to the elevator and into reception.

“Aarav!” Bobby jumped up and came around the corner to bump fists with me. “It’s good to see you up and about. And with a badass cane.”

Normally, I’d have laughed. Bobby, shaved bald, and bodybuilder buff, with a flawless ­year-­round tan courtesy of his sunbed habit, was only a few years older than me. We’d often shot the breeze about local rugby and I’d had a beer with him more than once when I still drank, but today, I had other priorities. “Hey, man. I wanted to talk about my Porsche.”

“Oh yeah, you got an ETA on the repairs to that sweet ride?” Grin wide, he went back behind his desk so he could keep an eye on the security feed. “I’ll make sure the delivery people hand it to me at the gate. I’ll drive it in personally. No scratches, I promise.”

“I trust you.” I shot him an equally wide grin while my heart raced. “No ETA yet, but I wanted to make sure you’re good with driving it into its parking space.”

“You kidding me? If I wasn’t a law student trying to keep a clean rec­ord, I’d be tempted to take it for a joyride.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” My mouth was full of cotton, snarling my throat. Coughing in an effort to clear the blockage, I said, “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit, make sure the houseplants aren’t dead.”

“Should be all good. Maid service has been in once a week like normal and I check out the place now and then like you asked. I’ll call up the executive lift for you.”

After waving my thanks, I made my way over to the elevator. It opened as if on cue, swallowing me up and cutting off the sight of Bobby’s happy face. I kept my expression casual. These elevators were monitored as part of the building’s security ­system—­nothing secretive, the camera was right out in the open.

Only once I was in my apartment did I allow my breathing to speed up, my expression to shift from ­good-­humored to icy panic. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Ignoring the bright green and flowering indoor plants, I headed straight for the door to my home office and punched in the code on the top of the line keypad lock. Since all my important files were in the cloud, I could work anywhere as long as I had my laptop, but I hated anyone in my dedicated ­work-­space.

Inside was a full computer setup, complete with dual screens.

Slumping down in the black leather chair that had cost almost as much as the computer, I booted up the system. It came on with a gentle hum, the machinery state-­of-­the-­art. But I was still almost hyperventilating by the time the screen bloomed with the password dialogue box.

It took me three tries to input my alphanumerical code.

Finally.

I went directly into my email client. It was ­web-­based, so I could’ve run this search from the laptop, but I couldn’t wait for that. I had to know what the hell was going on.

I misspelled “Porsche.” My fingers were shaking.

“Calm the fuck down.” Making fists with my hands, I just sat there and breathed until I was functional again.

Then I typed the word “Porsche” into the search bar. Multiple hits, most of them in the newsletter of the Porsche dealer from which I’d purchased my ride. But dusted in among those were a number of other documents.

Including ones from my insurance company.

… full ­cover … organize ­repairs … police report.

Mind on the blink, the information coming in fragments. Getting up, I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and pressed the cold bottle to my cheek for several long seconds before I allowed myself back in the office.

This time, the words made sense.

The police report submitted with your claim confirms that you weren’t under the influence of alcohol or drugs at the time of the accident. As a result, we are pleased to offer full coverage of repair costs, and will deal directly with your approved Porsche repair specialist to settle all bills.

At least that was good news.

Clicking out of that email, I saw one from my medical insurance company. As with all emergencies, I’d been treated in the free public system, so I must’ve asked them for information just in case I needed to consult a specialist outside the system. There was the usual intro and legal stuff about preapproval, blah blah, and ­then: … comprehensive policy offers full cover for both you and your passenger.

Ice in my brain, freezing neurons into place.

I scrolled down the letter to see if I could find a name.

Shit, had I hurt Paige? Was that why she hadn’t called me even after such a bad accident?

My eyes hitched on a name: Daisy Pearse.

Who was Daisy Pearse?

I searched my emails for her name, found nothing. A hit of the Coke jolted those frozen neurons into life. Taking out my phone, I searched the contacts. There was one entry for “Daisy—­Marco’s.” But it didn’t look like we’d exchanged any messages. Or I’d deleted them.

Marco’s was a ­high-­end restaurant. And I had a habit of tagging the contact numbers of women with information about where I’d picked them up.

Marco’s had also been the site of the publishing party.

It was a good bet I’d picked her up in the hours before the accident, then forgotten all about her in the aftermath.

Dr. Binchy had made it clear that some memory loss wasn’t unusual when it came to the time immediately preceding or following a traumatic incident. That didn’t explain how I’d completely forgotten that I’d driven the Porsche to the party.

Or that it was undergoing major repairs.

These emails were in my inbox. I’d either made the insurance claims or given someone else the information to do so.

Staring at my phone, I touched the icon that would connect me to Daisy Pearse.

“Aarav! Hi!” A