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

and dry, my eyes crusty. I grabbed the bottle of water on the bedside table and slugged down half of it before I tried to look at my phone. It was 10 p.m. I’d slept for four hours straight.

Not normal.

But the blinking lights were gone from in front of my eyes, and my head felt piercingly clear. Getting up, I used the bathroom, then turned on the lights but didn’t bother to close the curtains.

The first thing I did was go hunting for food. I was starving. I could hear the TV from the secondary lounge Shanti used to watch her soap operas, and I tried to walk as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her. A covered plate sat on the kitchen counter, along with extra food Shanti hadn’t yet put away in the fridge.

She’d made tandoori roast chicken, with a side of potatoes and sautéed vegetables. Of course, since it was Shanti, she’d added paprika and who knew what else to the veges, and the potatoes were ­skillet-­fried with onions and chili peppers.

Mouth watering, I piled more onto my plate before heating it up.

Rather than risking a trip upstairs, I sat at the counter and chowed down. When I heard light feet behind me, I smiled. “Busted.”

My little sister grinned before whispering, “Where’s Mum?”

“In her lounge.”

Tiptoeing to the cookie jar, Pari took out two ­chocolate-­chip raisin cookies.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I’m reading a really good book.”

Painful as it was to admit, the genetic love for reading seemed to have come via the Rai side of the family. “Yeah? What’s it about?”

She told me as she poured milk into a mug, then heated it up in the microwave. “Don’t tell Mum you saw me,” she said as she readied herself to head back to her room.

“See who?” I looked around the kitchen. “All I see is an empty kitchen.”

We both heard the garage door start to rise.

“Go,” I said to my sister, whose smile was already fading. “Make sure you hide your torch under the blankets.” It was highly unlikely our father would check up on her, but that was no reason to chance ruining her night. “Tell me the end of the book tomorrow.”

Another grin before she moved off.

I put my head down and focused on finishing my food. All I needed right now, while things were still so confused in my head, was to come face-­to-­face with my father. Fate took mercy on me. He went straight to his bedroom, probably to change.

Good, that meant I could have dessert in peace. I’d spotted kheer in one of the dishes of leftovers. Shanti had put plump raisins and slices of almond in the sweet rice pudding, and I cleaned out the bowl before heading upstairs.

Only then did I realize I’d forgotten to grab a Coke. I’d just have to tough it out.

I should’ve had a bar fridge put in my private living area, but it was too late for that ­now—­I wasn’t planning on hanging around here much longer. If need be, I’d hire a nurse, make them sign a nondisclosure agreement, and have them watch me to ensure I didn’t do something stupid, like set my apartment on fire.

Today, however, my brain felt sharp as a razor.

But I had nowhere to go, no leads to follow. Maybe I’d do a good deed and scout around Isaac’s property. It was weird his father had disappeared. But Isaac stayed up half the night, so my excursion would have to wait.

Come to think of it, had I seen Mellie since the day she’d snuck out of the Dixons’ place?

Frowning, I made a mental note to check on her status with Paul and Margaret. But I couldn’t forget the expression I’d caught on the rock couple’s faces in front of Alice’s home, that exquisite hunger at the proximity to violence.

“Not sure they can be trusted,” I muttered under my breath.

I could call Neri, but she’d give me nothing. Maybe if I’d worked on her ­earlier … No, she’d never been the nut that would crack.

The Henare home had gone dark for the night, but Veda and Brett were still awake, their windows ablaze with light. There was something up with those two. Otherwise why would Veda have made it a point to tell me she’d been out of town on the night in question?

A hidden message?

Hmm, I’d have to think about it.

In the end, I lowered the lights, sat down, and began to work on my book. But my mind wasn’t interested in fictional murder; it wanted answers to the one that haunted me. Giving in, I closed the file and opened up my browser. With nowhere else to look, I began to trawl through the social media profiles I hadn’t checked earlier. Riki’s was private and Diana’s kids were too young to have posted anything interesting.

I frowned, reminded of my idea of tracing Sarah, building a bridge between her and Diana. Since I had nothing better to do until the Cul-­de-­Sac went to sleep, and this was a worthy project, I put her name into the search engine: Sarah Teague.

I knew Diana’s maiden name because I’d seen her certificates from medical school, and my ­name-­collecting brain had a ­hundred-­percent recall rate. She used to have the certificates on the photo board by the television. I wondered if they were still there, buried behind an entirely different ­life—­or if she’d put them in her private home study.

Unfortunately, “Sarah Teague” brought up a ton of listings, but researching the esoteric was a skill I’d honed as a writer, so I pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and got to work whittling it down. The first step was to limit the search to New Zealand, since Diana had confirmed Sarah still lived here.

I then excluded anyone over and under a certain age range, but kept it a little wide, because things weren’t always indexed precisely.

Better, but still messy.

“You’re an idiot, Aarav.” Wanting to slap myself, I went straight to Mia’s social media page,