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

told me you had a black bike with blue stripes and it broke when you crashed it on the road in the rain, but Dad was in the room and he said you never had a bike like that. Your bike was red and you didn’t break it in the rain. It just got old so Dad got rid of it. Do you mean things like that?”

“Yeah.” It came out rough, a motorbike with blue accents vivid in my mind, a gleaming thing of chrome and power.

“One time, when Dad didn’t know I was coming to see you, I heard him use his mean voice with you.” A quiet tone, her shoulders hunching in.

“I won’t tell,” I whispered. “Pinky promise.” I hooked pinky fingers with her as my mother had done with me in childhood.

“He was saying, ‘Don’t be stupid, Aarav. You’re the one who messed up the rug. Cleaners just threw up their hands when they saw the state of it.’ ”

For a small child, my sister is a very good mimic with an excellent memory.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” she added with fierce loyalty. “You wrote a whole book with no pictures.”

I forced out a grin.

I knew I hadn’t hurt my mother. I could never hurt her.

Once home, I gave in to Shanti’s offer of an afternoon snack, ­then—­after a small detour to Pari’s ­room—­decided to spend a couple of hours working on my book. Writing calmed me down, helped me think, and I needed to do both of those if I was going to get to the bottom of what had happened to my mother.

Dr. Binchy’s earlier comments helped when it came to the ­manuscript—­I didn’t need external validation in the rest of my life, but I couldn’t get enough when it came to admiration or accolades for my work. As for bad reviews, I liked to print them out and burn them piece by piece on the brazier I had on my apartment balcony.

“I used to think that was cute,” Paige had said one night, about a week before she left me. She’d been seated in one of the loungers, a glass of red wine in hand and her cozy blue cardigan wrapped around her thin frame.

“What?” I’d fed another review into the fire.

“How you’d burn your bad reviews.” A sip of the wine, the short cap of her blonde hair shining in the late afternoon sunlight. “Don’t you think it’s weirdly obsessive that you hunt out these reviews? I mean, you’re burning reviews from bloggers with ten followers.”

“All writers are a little mad,” I’d said with a grin, bringing out a line I’d used more than once to good effect.

But Paige had lived with me for six ­months—­the longest any woman had ever ­lasted—­and she knew all my bullshit. “Seriously, Aarav, you need to get help or you’ll end up one of those unhinged authors who stalk reviewers.”

“No, I never will.” It hadn’t been a lie. “This is all I need.” A moment of feral pleasure, then ash, after which the bad review was erased from my mind. I wondered what Dr. Jitrnicka would say about that. Would he consider it disturbing behavior, another indication of my “slight antisocial” tendencies?

He was too nice to label me, and apparently the word “sociopath” was no longer in the diagnostic manual, but I liked it better than its ­long-­winded replacement. I wondered what Paige would say if I confessed my liking for a disturbing label. I still couldn’t believe she’d dropped me cold. Women tended to cling to me. But ­Paige … she was a ghost.

Six months of a life together, then nothing. I’d probably been a bastard to her. Just as well I didn’t remember.

I got up after having written three thousand good words. Copious sweet wrappers littered the desk. Fudge. Toffees. Chocolate. I’d made my way through a smorgasbord of delights as I wrote. Kahu called me a “vomit and shit” writer.

“When you’re in the zone, you vomit out words. The rest of the time, you do ­shit-­all.”

I’d laughed until I cried at the accuracy of it. I might take a year to write a book, but add up the hours I spent at the computer and you’d wonder when the hell I wrote over a hundred thousand words. Kahu, in comparison, was a ­self-­described “navel-­gazer” who took three hours to put together a hundred words.

The literary media couldn’t get enough of our friendship. One of the latest headlines had described us as The Literary Wunderkind and The Bloodthirsty Bestseller. Would we have been friends if we’d competed in the same sphere? I didn’t think so. Kahu’s level of arrogance mirrored ­mine—­we worked because he thought literary accolades were the pinnacle of success, while my counter was millions of copies sold.

Paige had always thought Kahu was an ass. “All those backhanded compliments he gives you in interviews? You need to rethink that toxic relationship.”

That was the one thing about which we’d never agreed. I didn’t think Kahu was toxic. Yeah, he could be an ass, and he was one of my chief enablers when it came to the drinking, but he was also one of the few people who understood even a small piece of me.

I was staring out at the falling darkness thinking I should give him a call and wondering vaguely why he hadn’t dropped me a note himself when a gleaming black Mercedes turned into the drive of the residence next to Alice and Cora’s.

Hemi Henare was home.

Yellow light glowed in the windows of the modern ­three-­level ­wood-­and-­glass structure that was his house. Either Tia Henare or one of their three adult children was already inside. The house didn’t appear as tall as it was because it had been built in a slight ­hollow—­that positioning also gave the family even more privacy than the rest of the Cul-­de-­Sac.

But my father’s house was located on a small rise at the end of the street. Not elevated enough for anyone to comment on ­it—­but enough