Quiet in Her Bones by Singh, Nalini (mobi reader .txt) 📕

wiped away a tear and leaned back into Calvin’s embrace. “She loved that car.”

An unspoken question in the words, but I wasn’t ready to tell her the rest. About the bones and the missing money. “You were the only person for whom she allowed dirt into the ­Jaguar—­I remember us driving out to the rose farm to get that special rose for your birthday and how carefully she drove home, not wanting to jostle it.” Family aside, the blooms were Diana’s ­passion—­everyone was welcome to look, but touch one and you’d feel her wrath. “She’d have loved to see how your roses have thrived.”

“I still have that one she got me.” A watery smile, while Calvin rubbed his hand up and down her arm.

“I ­know—­I can see it from my room when it blooms.”

Calvin’s eyes caught mine, and I saw that he wanted to comfort his wife in privacy. Good.

I didn’t want to talk about this any longer. “You’d better finish Charlie’s walk before he starts snoring.”

The dog was settling down into a nap pose.

Diana looked down even as more tears bloomed in her eyes. “Dear Charlie. He’s never let me down. I’ll miss him desperately when it’s time for him to move on.”

“Aarav.” Calvin’s voice. “You know you can always count on us for support. Whether it’s with arrangements or otherwise.”

That was Calvin, too. Practical to the point that it seemed cold and unfeeling, but he’d been the same way when he helped me buy running shoes, and that had been an act of kindness. “Yes, I know. Thank you.”

I moved on as Diana bent to revive the dog and Calvin hunkered down beside her. And when I caught the pained sound of muffled sobs, I didn’t look back.

9

Diana and Calvin’s neighbors, the Dixons, were coming down their drive, showered and dressed and ready for their ­post-­lunch coffee and cake at Lily’s. ­Seventy-­five and ­seventy-­nine and in no hurry to move in to a retirement home, they treated old age like an attempt at hostile takeover.

Adrian did a stop at their place for a personal training session once a ­week—­it might be cynical of me, but I had a feeling that stop was the only one at which Adrian did the job he advertised.

“Hiya, my man Aarav!” Paul Dixon, the older of the two, tipped his jaunty black bowler hat. His ­blunt-­featured face bore a permanent pink cast as a result of hard living during his time as a rock musician. Get close enough and you could see all the fine broken veins.

He’d had two monster hits. Add in a financial genius wife and boom, the man could buy a ­ten-­million-­dollar penthouse if he so wished, but he’d chosen the green privacy of the Cul-­de-­Sac. “How’s the leg?” he asked.

“I should be able to walk only on the boot soon,” I said, more in hope than anything else, because right now, it still hurt like a bitch if I even thought about putting any real weight on it.

“You should get yourself a cane, sweetcakes.” Margaret Dixon turned on one ­low-­heeled but ­knee-­high boot to fix her husband’s crisp black shirt; the magenta of her hair shone even in the dull light. “More comfortable than them crutches.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that, too. I’ll see if I can order one online.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” Paul said. “Just wait here.” He began to walk back up the drive while Margaret smiled out of a mouth coated in red lipstick.

The ebony of her skin was unlined, her only apparent concession to age her low heels. Otherwise, it was leather pants and sparkly tops.

“I like the sequins.”

She cackled. “Bloody horrendous, innit? Put dear Dr. Liu and those snotty Fuckpatricks in a right royal snit.”

It made me laugh, her butchering of Veda and Brett Fitzpatrick’s name, and for a moment I could imagine this was a normal day, with Margaret on gleeful bad behavior and Paul so incessantly cheerful I’d decided to cast him as a serial killer in a future book. “Brett and Veda still being assholes?” The lawyers were my father’s neighbors to the left, and two more sour individuals I’d yet to meet.

“Think they’re bloody toffs, too good for the likes of us. Meanwhile me and Paulie can buy and sell them under the table.” She patted me on the cheek. “Talking of the filthy lucre, you do what I said with yours?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I’d come straight to Margaret after realizing I was in danger of pissing away my newfound wealth. She’d given me some “no bollocks” advice, per her own description, then hooked me up with her and Paul’s money managers.

“Entire lot of them have sticks up their bums,” she’d told me around the fragrant smoke from an herbal cigarette, “but that’s how I like them financial types. They’re so proper they itemize every fucking paper clip on their expense reports. No ­funny-­fiddling with our money, or faffing about and charging it to ­us—­but remember, you gotta watch them.”

“I did fall behind in looking at the reports after my accident,” I admitted, “but my accounts seem in good order.”

“Send them to me and I’ll give them a squiz.” Another pat on my cheek. “You grew up pretty. Got your mama’s smile.” She kept going while I fought to maintain my casual expression. “I remember when you were a boy racing up and down here on your little red bike. Cheeky bugger you ­were—­reminded me of our Cherry when she was small, yeah.”

“I never had a red bike. Maybe you’re thinking of Beau.”

“That’s bollocks, sweetie.” She glanced over at Paul, who’d just reappeared. “Paulie baby, didn’t Aarav have a red bike back when Fifi talked you into that crazy gig?”

“Bloody Fifi. Still miss that barmy tart. And yeah, Aarav, you were a right maniac on that red thing.” Grandfatherly laughter, as if he’d never once been caught having an orgy on his tour bus. “Here you go. Try this then.” He handed me a glossy wooden cane, the wood