Quiet in Her Bones by Singh, Nalini (good e books to read txt) 📗

It had settled into position, the hanging hook now so deep inside the trees that it had disappeared from sight. Neither of us spoke as we waited for it to reemerge. It took time. The sling being attached securely, then tested. The various straps being ­double-­checked. Even though I knew my mother’s remains were no longer in the Jaguar, my brain visualized a macabre scene in which the sling broke, bones scattering all over the forest floor.

“You didn’t find the vehicle today, did you?” The forensic process would never be this quick for a body discovered buried in the bush.

“No,” Neri admitted. “We were alerted to it yesterday. Getting to the site took a while as it’s untouched native bush, not part of any trail. Then we had to trace the vehicle. There was no point in doing the notification until we were fairly certain the remains had to be your mother’s.”

All that must’ve been done quietly, by walking into the bush via another route. No cars and hearses and cranes to tip off the public.

“Did you find a smaller ring? It would’ve been on her left pinky finger. Plain silver stamped with the image of a butterfly.”

A slight pursing of her lips, but she seemed to rethink the automatic refusal, and went over to talk to one of the forensic techs. He pulled out what looked like a tablet, and they bent their heads over it.

When she returned, she shook her head. “The car windows weren’t fully closed.”

Animal activity.

It was something I’d researched for my moribund second novel.

A small ring could’ve been easily ­lost … especially if a scavenger had decided to feed on my mother’s long, slender fingers.

My stomach roiled.

“The SOCOs, did, however, recover a third ring.”

Taking out my phone, I scrolled through the pictures I kept in a special folder. I’d transferred them from phone to phone over the years. Photos of her. For memory. For identification. Because I heard a scream that night. Because my father is a bastard who was banging his secretary back then.

“One of these?” I zoomed in on an image of her hand holding a flute of champagne.

Diamonds glittered under the light of that ­long-­ago charity gala, my mother’s skintight dress a shock of red sequins that covered her with perfect wifely sweetness. She’d saved the plunging vee for the back, the styled tumble of her soft black curls sliding cross the smooth canvas of her skin as she twirled in my room prior to heading out.

“Your father’s going to lose his shit,” she’d said with a wicked grin before leaning down to kiss me where I sat sprawled in bed, my headphones around my neck. “Eat your dinner, Ari. I made it just for ­you—­and I don’t want to see burger wrappers in the trash when I get back. Suna?”

Her scent had hung thick in the air of my room, ripe in my lungs, until I’d gotten up to push open the sliding doors to the balcony. Sometimes, I hadn’t been able to breathe around my mother, her love a snake that crushed me. But I’d eaten the dinner she’d made, and I’d grinned when she’d asked someone to take this photograph, then sent it to me.

See? she’d written.

The black of my father’s tuxedo was just visible in the background of the shot, and even though the photographer had been focused on my mother, they’d nonetheless caught the edge of his thunderous expression.

Neri looked carefully at the image before nodding, the movement wafting over a scent that wasn’t all forest and death. I’d smelled that scent in the hair of a girl I’d dated at university. Coconut oil infused with frangipani.

“The square sapphire,” Neri said.

“Birthday gift.” I had no idea how many rings she was wearing that rainy night ten years ago; my mother had been a woman who liked her fingers to sparkle. But the unfashionable pinky ­ring … She’d never taken that off. Not since the day I gave it to her when I was fourteen.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mum. I love you.

Her face had crumpled at the card and the sight of the ring. I’d mowed lawns all summer to buy it. She’d put on that ­ring—­such a cheap thing in comparison to the other rocks on her ­fingers—­and never taken it off. Not even when she’d mumbled drunkenly about how she wished she could live her life all over again, start anew.

Without a ­child—­and definitely without a husband.

She’d never remembered those conversations in the morning, never recalled that she’d wished me out of existence. I remembered each and every poisonous word, each and every verbal blow. But I also remembered the handmade meals and the butterfly ring she’d worn proudly to galas and political dinners and champagne brunches.

A groan from the crane, a shout from the driver turned operator.

The canopy shivered.

6

First came the massive metal hook. Followed by a bunching of ropes. And then the first sight of the harness. Cradled within it, like a child in a carrier, sat a car that had cost three hundred thousand dollars when my father bought it for my mother.

“Appearances matter, son. We can’t have Mrs. Ishaan Rai in a cheap Japanese import.”

That same night, he’d slapped her so hard that she’d fallen to the ground, and she’d thrown a glass at him. It had shattered on the wall, a shard flying up to slice a thin line beside my eye.

I hadn’t made a sound. I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Later that night, while I was curled up tight under my ­superhero-­branded blankets, I’d heard other noises. I’d been seven then, hadn’t quite understood. Only later had I realized the meaning behind those grunts and pants and tiny breathless screams.

“Hold it steady!”

The Jaguar emerged from the possessive embrace of the forest with a slight rocking motion.

The midnight green of the paint had been dulled and rusted by its years in the trees, the fenders no longer gleaming, the tires flat and eaten away, but the