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

At one point during my wait, I decided to take a risk and get out despite the pain in my leg.

Transcript

Session #6

“I felt as if we had a breakthrough last session. Yet today, you’re telling me nothing.”

“Didn’t you say that I could sit here for an hour and say nothing if I wanted? I’m paying for that hour after all.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

“Passive-­aggressive doesn’t suit you.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“Is that how you see it? What the hell is this? Amateur hour?”

“You have a lot of anger inside you.”

“Oh, fantastic. Now my highly paid therapist is resorting to clichés. I must’ve really screwed up your head with everything I told you last time.”

25

I was back in my car by the time the ­phone-­company guys tramped out from the bush, ­orange-­vested and with safety helmets on their heads. I didn’t know what they’d been doing in there, but they’d made it out just in ­time—­the sky was starting to darken fast.

“Yo, mate, you break down? Need a jump start?” One of them leaned down to look through the open passenger window; a tattoo snaked up the side of his neck, and his knuckles spelled out love.

I pointed at my leg. “Just needed a rest. Safe to drive the auto but it starts to hurt after a while, so I have to get out and stretch.” Damp shirt and hair now explained.

“Bad luck, eh. Broke my leg ­once—­bloody hard to get around.” The small leaf stuck in his short black beard moved as he spoke. “Hope the sucker fixes up soon.”

“Amen to that.”

He bumped fists with me before returning to his workmate.

I watched as the two loaded up their gear, and figured I’d have to give this up for ­today—­no way could I sit on the road without the cover provided by the van. It wasn’t like people parked on this ­road—­it was empty of any stationary traffic as far back and forward as I could see.

The brunette exited the house.

Starting up the engine, I pulled out a minute after she’d left. The phone guys gave me a thumbs-­up as I headed out. I waved.

Brunette’s car broke down on cue five minutes later. The small part I’d removed safely hidden in the glove compartment of my car, I pulled to a stop next to her. Speaking through my open window, I put on my most charming smile. “Hey, you need help?”

“I have a phone,” she said through her partially raised window, a sulkiness to her face that a lot of men probably found attractive. “It’d be better if you knew how to fix the car.” Sarcasm thick in the words.

“No can do. But I can offer you a ­ride—­or I’ll wait with you while you call for help.” It was getting dark and roadside support would take a while to drive out here. “My name’s Aarav Rai. ­Internet-­search ­me—­promise I’m not a serial killer.”

“Sure, Mr. Big Shot,” she said, but input my name.

I knew the instant she saw it:

Million-­Dollar ­Man—­How a Young Writer Went from Pauper to Prince

By some quirk of algorithms or the whim of the internet gods, that article was always the first hit when you input my name. I actually had far more than a million thanks to the movie deal, but the article worked to get ­attention—­and engender trust. My face would’ve also populated the screen, both my official head shots and candids taken by fans.

A quick flick from under her lashes to check my face matched the one onscreen.

I smiled.

Sulkiness morphing into sultriness, brunette fluffed her hair. “I’ll leave the car here for pickup. Damn thing probably needs a tow.”

She slid into my passenger seat. “You know, even though you’re famous, I wouldn’t have gotten in the car with you if I hadn’t seen your leg just now.”

She’d obviously never heard of Ted Bundy. “You want to call for that tow? Then I can drop you home.”

After she did, she wiggled in her seat. “I’m Ginger. It seems too early to be going home.”

“I know a bar.”

I deliberately chose a ­higher-­end city bar, and she was all wide eyes as I pulled into a parking spot. “Are you sure we can get in?” she whispered, and smoothed her hands down her little black dress. “I heard they only let in VIPs.”

“I know some people.” The other writers I knew were always ­goggle-­eyed when I did things like ­this—­most people couldn’t ID a writer if that writer was standing next to their head shot while holding a neon sign that spelled out their name.

But the “Pauper to Prince” journalist had included a whole lot about my “mysterious and tragic” past in the piece, and they’d styled the photo shoot with me on the motorbike I’d sold after buying the Porsche. It hadn’t been in the plan, but the woman running the shoot had gone nuts when I turned up to it on my bike.

Only reason I’d done the shoot was because I’d known it’d piss off my father to have his son in such a major ­publication—­but in the arts section rather than the business one. Yeah, it hadn’t been all that mature, but I take my wins where I can get them.

The photos had gone viral.

End result of it all had been an unexpected wave of celebrity. Then came the hit movie; it had boosted my profile to the next level. No longer was I on the B-­list. No, I was a firmly A-­list “moody genius” ­who—­according to ­Kahu—­women wanted to fuck and mother at the same time.

It’d all turn to dust if I didn’t deliver a second book that replicated the success of the ­first—­or maybe I’d just slide into permanent D-­list celebrity status. For now, however, I was a bona fide A-­lister complete with superstar “friends” who followed my social media, and the ability to get into clubs that liked to tout themselves as exclusive.

I didn’t drink in those bars and clubs, though I was very good at giving the