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

tightened on the steering wheel as my father got into the passenger seat.

We didn’t speak, my eyes on the unmarked police vehicle up ahead. Driven by Constable Neri, it led us out of the leafy gilded surrounds of the Cul-­de-­Sac and onto a long and winding road bordered by the dense forests of the Waitākere Ranges Regional Park, with only small hamlets of habitation along the ­way—­and glimpses of breathtaking vistas where the foliage opened up.

Scenic Drive lived up to its name. But only if you weren’t expecting pretty and safe.

All that rich green turned parts of the road claustrophobic. It was never searing hot here, not in the cool darkness of the shadows cast by the forest giants. This was a quiet place, a place that whispered that humanity was an intrusion that would be swiftly forgotten once we were gone.

An unexpected flash of white, a large sign at the entrance to a trail, warning that the area was under a rāhui because of kauri dieback disease. No one was permitted to go on those trails, because the disease spread through the forest on the soles of human shoes, bringing a slow death to trees meant to grow far older than my mother would ever be.

I followed the police car knowing that if it stopped anywhere on this road, it’d be a spot I’d driven past hundreds of times.

Passing my mother’s grave over and over again.

The unmarked car slowed as it turned a corner, and when I followed, I saw flashing lights, road cones, and an ­orange-­vested officer waiting to direct traffic through what had become a single narrow lane.

One of the darkest sections of the road and of the forest.

The land dropped off precipitously to my right, but not into emptiness. Into bush dense and thick and impenetrable to the human eye. Ancient kauri trees, nīkau palms, huge tree ferns, this landscape was theirs.

Constable Neri brought the police vehicle to a stop behind a van and I pulled in behind her. Everyone waited while I got the crutches from the backseat, no one speaking. Armpits snugged into the tops of the walking aids, I nodded, and the cops led us to a part of the road that had no safety barrier against the fall into the green. I couldn’t remember if it ever had.

“The car was found at the foot of this incline,” Regan told us. “Nose down.”

That fit my father’s theory of it sliding off the road and down the steep slope into the devouring forest. I wanted to dispute the idea of my mother driving off the road on a rainy night, such a neat and tidy end to everything, but she had drunk too much as long as I could remember, and she could be a reckless driver.

Of course, if I were the one writing this story, I’d use those very things to cover up a murder. Cover up a scream.

“Why did no one notice?” my father demanded, an edge to his voice that could’ve been either shock or fear. Maybe both. “There must’ve been a trail, broken trees, something!” He was using his “I am the CEO” tone.

That’s what my mother used to call it.

“Yes, Mr. CEO-­ji. No, Mr. CEO-­ji.”

That honorific “ji” at the end had been the icing on the sarcasm cake. Maybe it had begun in affection, but it had ended in mockery. In truth, I didn’t really remember affection between them. Sometimes I remembered a softer voice, less aggressive encounters, but even then, it had been brittle and one fight away from splintering.

My father is a hard man to love. I’ve never been sure if he even wants love, or if all he wants or needs is obedience. As for returning any affection given, that’s a ­non-­event. To Ishaan Rai, his family is his possession. Particularly his wife. I don’t know if my mother was ever happy to be owned, if she began married life compliant and quiet, but the woman I remember hated it with a vengeance.

“At this stage,” Regan said, “all I can tell you is that the vehicle is now so well hidden that no one might’ve seen it for years longer if a DOC survey team hadn’t been looking around below. They were checking on the ­kauri—­routine inspection to do with the dieback.”

The skin of my father’s face mottled. He has fair skin, the kind that splotches with anger and is coveted by mothers of Indian brides everywhere. Call it what you ­will—­internalized oppression, a long shadow cast by the British Raj, brutal ­classism—­but my mother had been equally fair, two bookends in what was meant to be a perfect marriage.

My father’s second wife is as dark as teak.

“It rained the night she disappeared,” I said before he could launch into one of his tirades. “The rain turned into a storm that crashed fences and trees all over the city.” It would’ve washed away any tire tracks, the resulting ­city-­wide carnage making the sight of broken foliage nothing out of the ordinary.

And my mother’s car had been a dark green Jaguar.

Such a stunning hue.

So easy to miss among the deep greens of the forest.

But while I could imagine a single car being swallowed up by the forest, I also knew someone might’ve helped the forest along. It wouldn’t have needed to be much. A few branches thrown over the Jaguar, some vines. Nature would’ve soon taken over. Especially after all that nourishing rain.

“You have a good memory.” Hands in his pants pockets, Regan appeared only idly interested.

I wondered if I was a suspect. After all, sixteen isn’t a child. “That was the day my mother vanished. Every minute detail of it is engraved on my memory, along with the days immediately following.” Days when I’d still hoped and waited.

“Of course, of course.” A glance at Neri.

I didn’t care what they thought of me, what conclusions they’d drawn in the car on the way here. I was more interested in what lay below. Even knowing the Jaguar was