The Night of the Storm

Description

NATIONAL BESTSELLER

From debut author Nishita Parekh, a fresh take on the classic locked-room thriller, about a multigenerational Indian American family marooned in a house with a murderer during Hurricane Harvey

Hurricane Harvey is about to hit Houston. Meanwhile, single mom Jia Shah is already having a rough week: her twelve-year-old son, Ishaan, has just been suspended from school for getting in a fight. Still reeling from the fallout of her divorce—their move to Houston, her family’s disapproval, the struggle to make ends meet on her own—now Jia is worried about Ishaan’s future, too. Will her solo parenting be enough? Doesn’t a boy need a father?

And now their apartment complex is under a mandatory evacuation order. Jia’s sister, Seema, has invited them to hunker down in her fancy house in Sugar Land, and despite Jia’s misgivings—Seema’s husband, Vipul, has been just a little too friendly with her lately—Jia concedes it’s probably the best place to keep Ishaan safe during the hurricane. With Jia’s philandering ex scrutinizing her every move, all too eager to snatch back custody of Ishaan, she can’t afford to make a mistake.

When Vipul’s brother and his wife show up on Seema’s doorstep, too, it’s a recipe for disaster. Grandma, the family matriarch, has never been shy about playing favorites among her sons and their wives. As the storm escalates, tensions rise quickly, and soon someone’s dead. Was it a horrible accident or is there a murderer in their midst?

With no help available until the floodwaters recede in the morning, Jia must protect her son and identify the culprit before she goes down for a crime she didn’t commit—or becomes the next victim. . . .”Nishita Parekh gives the locked-room thriller a fresh take in her debut novel,The Night of the Storm, by putting a multigenerational Indian American family at the center.” —Entertainment Weekly

“Wry, funny, and suspenseful. The Night Of The Storm is a wickedly observed murder mystery set against a unique background featuring characters under-represented in Western crime fiction.” —Criminal Element

“A must-read thriller for 2024 is Nishita Parekh’s NIGHT OF THE STORM… Set in Sugar Land during Hurricane Harvey, Parekh’s debut features a multigenerational Indian-American family who find themselves trapped by floodwaters in a house with a murderer — an inventive update of the classic “locked-room” mystery.”—Houston City Book

“A fresh take on the classic locked-room thriller” —The Nerd Daily

“Parekh’s impressive debut combines a variation on the locked-room mystery with social commentary on the immigrant experience and the role of women in Indian culture.” —Booklist

“The Night of the Storm opens with a hurricane and grows tenser with every page as a single mother and her child find themselves sheltering in place with a killer. Parekh augments this pulse-pounding premise with brilliantly drawn characters who must navigate family secrets, betrayals, and the cultural complexities of being an immigrant in America. I was riveted the whole way through!” —Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines

“A story of natural–and unnatural–disaster that simmers with dread from start to pulse-pounding finish. Nishita Parekh breathes fresh life into the locked-room mystery with beautifully rendered single mom Jia Shah, her ferocious love for her son, and her sharp exploration of the pressures faced by immigrant women and mothers. Atmospheric, gripping, and satisfying–a debut thriller not to be missed.” —Katie Gutierrez, nationally bestselling author of More Than You’ll Ever Know

“This dazzling and multilayered thriller has everything: a brilliantly twisty plot laced with intelligent social commentary, a stormy and claustrophobic setting, and characters who leap off the page and into your heart.  It’s a thoughtful story of sisterhood, the ups and downs of single parenting, and the complexities of starting fresh in a new place…and at the same time, a wildly entertaining thriller filled with secrets and mayhem that will keep you guessing until the final page.  I loved it and I can’t wait to see what Nishita will write next!” —Abi Daré, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl with the Louding Voice

“Parekh’s impressive debut combines a variation on the locked-room mystery with social commentary on the immigrant experience and the role of women in Indian culture.” —Booklist (STARRED REVIEW)

“This locked-room mystery’s strength is its setting and the atmospheric tension created by the hurricane.” —Library Journal

“Nishita Parekh’s debut deftly blends suspense and family dynamics in a way I’ve never read before. I was immediately hooked from the first pages and flew through the story in a single sitting. Readers everywhere will root for Jia on her journey of motherhood, survival, and identity. I can’t wait to read what Parekh writes next. The Night of the Storm is a fresh and gripping story that shows Parekh is a talent to watch!” —Saumya Dave, author of What a Happy Family and Well-Behaved Indian Women

“The Night of the Storm is a haunting and claustrophobic mystery where the tension and suspense are as high as the floodwaters that threaten to unravel a family’s secrets. Nishita is a gifted writer to watch.” —Wanda M. Morris, Anthony-award winning author of Anywhere You Run and All Her Little Secrets

“The Night of the Storm achieves an impressive feat of being a suspenseful page-turner and a considered exploration of identity, migration and motherhood. Family secrets, sibling rivalries and intergenerational conflicts are given life-or-death stakes in this taut and propulsive novel.”
—Balli Kaur Jaswal, author of Now You See Us and Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows

“A heart-stopping, fast-paced murder mystery wrapped up in family drama that is irresistible. A Desi “Clue,” this story dives into the life of an immigrant woman trying to survive, while all around her people are struggling under the weight of cultural expectations. I couldn’t stop reading this and want more from Parekh!”
—Amina Akhtar, author of Kismet and Almost Surely DeadNishita Parekh was born and raised in Mumbai and now lives in Texas with her husband and toddler. She is a software programmer but a writer at heart and loves writing about her experiences as a woman and an immigrant. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers, Crime Writers of Color, and Sisters in Crime, and is a #RevPit contest winner. The Night of the Storm is her first novel.Note: These discussion questions contain spoilers! We suggest you finish the book before you read through them.

1. At the beginning of the book, Jia’s lawyer, Hanna, tells her, “There is no margin for error.” And, later, Jia muses, “Life mirrored Chutes and Ladders. A single role of the dice de­stroyed everything.” How do these statements resonate with the characters’ plans and the way they play out?

2. It soon becomes clear that Jia and her family are keep­ing a host of competing secrets. Which secrets struck you as particularly harmful and which were merely misguided? Which secrets would you have kept and what would you have shared immediately?

3. Vipul insists his house is “impossible to flood,” but we soon see that he is incorrect, both literally and metaphorically. Jia is relieved when the hurricane is downgraded to a tropical storm before she learns the lack of movement will cause even more destruction. How does the path of the storm mirror the trajectory of the story?

4. The Night of the Storm gives us a deep dive into the stigma of divorce in the Indian American community, but we also see the fraught realities of seemingly intact families. Jia notes “an all-too-recognizable cocktail of shame, guilt, and de­fiance” etched on Seema’s face, and we hear her thoughts on “abusive mothers-in-law, enabling mothers, and supine hus­bands.” How does Jia compare the challenges of divorce to the difficulties of marriage? Do you have a different point of view?

5. Sibling relationships are important in the book and they often come loaded with comparison. When Jia arrives at her house, Seema expresses concern over Jia’s wet attire but also points out “none of my clothes will fit you.” Vipul and Raj de­bate whether Raj should find work as a technical writer to pro­vide a more stable income for his family. How do you think these tensions and arguments might have played out had the events during the hurricane not happened? Do you think the siblings would have been able to see eye to eye one day?

6. Jia notes that “every Indian household, at any given moment, had enough food for three additional families” but Seema has the ability to “weaponize food.” We see the characters use food to comfort, reward, insult, shun, exclude, incapacitate, and even poison the others. How does the act of feeding become manipulative—and even destructive—in the novel?

7. Technology is deeply enmeshed in the theme of ap­pearance versus reality that runs through The Night of the Storm. Social media is an essential tool for Seema to curate an enviable life, but it also provides Jia with clues about Asha’s true father. Text messages and internet searches also lead to revelations and misunderstandings. How do you see technology as both an asset and a liability in the novel and in your own life?

8. The author gives us several examples of romantic relationships in the novel, but none of them are ideal. Of Jia and Dev, Seema and Vipul, and Lisa and Raj, which marriage did you find most promising? Which was most tragic? What are the benefits and drawbacks of a love marriage versus an arranged marriage? Of marrying within one’s culture or outside it?

9. Jia posits that an unmarried woman, a divorcée, and an infertile couple know the road less traveled is most lonely. But it seems that no one in the story is exempt from loneliness. How do you see this emotion play out among the other characters?

10. Jia and other characters like Raj struggle with the weight of cultural and societal expectations. Is there an instance in which you went against the expectations of your family/society? How did you change as a result of that experience?One

Friday, August 25, 2017, 1:30 p.m.

The world was ending. The instant meteorologists upgraded Harvey to a Category 2 hurricane, Houston residents stopped dismissing weather advisories and promptly dialed their fears up to apocalyptic levels. Rows of barren shelves gaped in supermarket aisles, muddy footprints streaked the floor, and cash registers beeped like heart rate monitors.

“Honestly, ma’am,” the young cashier said, “you will not find drinking water anywhere in the city today.”

Jia Shah’s shoulders slumped. “Can you please check again?” Her damp hands were clamped around the handle of a steel cart, empty but for a soaked umbrella. While the HEB store clerk clacked away on his keyboard, Jia held her breath, waiting for the tap-tap of his fingers to conjure an aisle number with the last case of bottled water.

When he shook his head without looking up, she sighed. “Do you know when you’ll get restocked?”

He shrugged and looked past her, exhaustion etched on his boyish face.

“Lady, if you ain’t buying, move!” someone chided from the rear of the line.

“Ma’am, please,” the cashier implored, his expression equal parts exasperation and pity.

“Yes, yes, I’ll get out of the way,” Jia said, cheeks warming.

Jia did not blame the cashier. She must cut a pathetic figure-a frazzled Indian woman dressed in a sweat-stained flannel shirt and mom jeans. Her curly hair, grayer than warranted by her thirty-six years of age, was tied in a frayed scrunchie. Six months postdivorce, her signature look was of a woman barely holding it together.

She jostled her way to the back of the store, the cart’s rusty wheels squeaking like a faulty air conditioner. She needed that case of water.

Spotting a mis-shelved bottled water pack tucked behind canned beans, she felt elated, and pushed past another shopper to grab the case. The woman glowered, and Jia was about to issue a hurried apology when a solitaire diamond snug on the woman’s ring finger caught her eye.

Jia’s remorse evaporated.

This irate shopper had a partner to commiserate with over her encounter with the rude woman at the store, someone who would tsk-tsk at all the right moments in her story. All Jia had was an ex-husband hovering like a vulture over the carcass of her deteriorating relationship with her preteen son.

Earlier that day, Jia had been sitting at her desk, busy copying numbers into a spreadsheet, when she noticed the new email waiting in her inbox like a stealth bomb, ready to detonate her life with one mouse click.

Subject: Re: Case #9950 Custody evaluation.

Dear Ms. Jia Shah,

Based on the recent events at his son’s school, my client Dev Banerjee has no choice but to revisit your custody arrangement. It is evident that my client’s son is not
being provided the best care by his mother. Given the circumstances, it is in the child’s best interests to request a thorough custody evaluation.

Custody evaluation. A bolt of anxiety shot through Jia thinking about these two words. It was just like her ex-husband to use her son’s suspension as leverage to take him away from her.

The move to Houston was supposed to be a fresh start for her and Ishaan. Jia had wanted to divorce Dev in order to keep Ishaan away from his father’s malignant influence, so Ishaan’s suspension, after less than a year in her sole care, felt like a slap in the face.

Her ex’s name, “Dev,” was aspirational. His parents, zealous believers of Hindu astrology, who would refrain from emptying their bowels at inauspicious times were it possible, had consulted a Brahmin priest to find out the Sanskrit characters associated with their baby’s moon sign before choosing the name “Dev,” a Hindu synonym for “god.” Yet for all their efforts, their choice was anything but felicitous. For much of his adult life, Dev had acted in decidedly ungodly ways.

He’d spied on her in the past when they’d both still lived in Chicago, using ostensibly friendly drop-in visits from their common friends to keep tabs on her, but how, Jia wondered, had he found out about the suspension from all the way across the country?

Her phone buzzed. “Seema” flashed on the cracked screen. Jia’s chest constricted. She swiped left, shoving her sister’s call to voicemail.

Seema, a Houstonian for over a decade, likely had crates of water stowed away in her kitchen pantry. Normally, in a situation like this, Jia would be camped in her sister’s well-lit, well-stocked house in the Sugar Land suburb, lounging on a handcrafted wood swing, royal-red cushions soft on her back, warm hands cupped around a steaming mug of chai. Instead, she was canvassing every grocery store within a ten-mile radius and ignoring her sister’s calls.

But the specter of facing her brother-in-law, Vipul, chilled her. Regret curdled in her stomach. The cover-up was worse than the crime, and even worse were multiple cover-ups, every missed opportunity to come clean to Seema another brick of guilt erecting a wall between them. Now, given the choice, hunkering down on Galveston Beach, staring into the eye of the storm, was a more appealing option than a night under Vipul’s roof.

She was crossing the dairy aisle, nose scrunched at the funk of sulfury stress sweat mixed with rainwater dripping from the shoppers’ clothes, when her phone vibrated again with another call from Seema. Seema Joshi was nothing if not persistent. She would keep calling till Jia picked up. On the fourth ring, Jia answered.

“Where are you? I’ve been calling you since forever,” Seema intoned. Her sister often had a teenager’s grasp of time.

“Sorry, my phone was on silent,” Jia said, surprised by the way the lie slipped out easily, plucked from a panoply of her usual excuses: busy at work, lost track of time, poor network at the apartment. She lied on autopilot, but there was no getting used to the uneasy feeling that rose in her throat on deceiving her sister.

“You must come stay with us tonight, okay?” Seema’s orders often masqueraded as questions.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Jia fidgeted with the sleeve of her rumpled shirt.

Seema was only a year older than Jia, yet Jia was used to playing the role of a dutiful soldier. Even now that they were both adults, Jia had to fight the instinct to comply with Seema.

“You’re all aloooone.” Seema’s inflection turned ghoulish on the last word.

For Seema, married for over a decade, the lives of single mothers were filled with unfathomable horrors. Like first world residents rage-tweeting about the plight of refugees, she had plenty of sympathy to dispense but not an ounce of empathy, because Seema sure as hell was not walking in a single mother’s shoes.

“I’m not alone, I have Ishaan,” Jia said, checking her watch. She had to get home fast to pick him up from Ms. Nikki’s house.

“Okay, fine, I mean you and my dear nephew are both alone.”

Isn’t everyone alone by that logic? Jia pursed her lips. She stepped aside as a child zoomed past her, knocking down boxes of Froot Loops.

Seema continued, “Vipul says it’s the storm of the century. He suggested I call you immediately.”

“Did he now? That’s very kind of him.” Jia said, keeping her tone measured, even as her mind churned, scrambling to decipher the subtext of his words. “Thanks for the offer, but we’ll be all right.”

“Okay, fine,” Seema said, her gruff tone suggesting the opposite.

Acquiescing to Seema was a dynamic easy to fall back on, like slipping into a pair of old, well-worn yet comfortable jeans.

But this time Jia had good reasons to stand her ground.

“Did you fill your bathtub?” Seema asked.

“What? Why?”

“You’ll need water to flush the toilet if you’re stranded in your apartment without running water.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” Jia pinched her nose. The exigencies of a hurricane baffled her. The clamor for stocking up on water with the entire city under the threat of submersion seemed counterintuitive.

“You’re not taking this seriously enough. You will be safe in our house. It’s dangerous out there.”

“Umm, yeah, I’ll definitely think about it.”

“So basically, you’ll come up with a last-minute excuse.” A loud exhale on the other end. “Listen, if you decide to come, have dinner with us.”

Ending the call, Jia exited the store and stopped mid-stride, sucking in her breath. Although it was only five in the evening, complete darkness greeted her. Thick billowing clouds eclipsed the sun. The last vestiges of daylight had dispelled hours earlier than usual for August. The air was thick with dewy petrichor. The light drizzle of the morning had progressed to steady rain, fat waterdrops falling en masse to the ground, bursting into diamonds.

As she dashed toward her parked car, a violent gust whipped her curls and turned her umbrella inside out.

She plugged her key into the ignition, bringing the car’s radio to life: “Folks, we have an important update. Hurricane Harvey has now strengthened to a Category 3 hurricane, with winds up to one hundred twenty miles per hour. Oil refineries have been shut down. It is anticipated that schools will stay closed for weeks. Stay tuned for more details . . .”

A slew of incoming messages from Seema buzzed her phone like a vibrating restaurant beeper.

It’s a Cat 3 hurricane now! They’ve started canceling flights from Corpus Christi. Come here ASAP.

And in perfect Seema fashion, she followed the alarming warnings with a sanguine Boomerang clip: Seema in her living room, two fingers V-shaped, expansive glass windows behind her reflecting a silver blur of rain, a single tree rocking sideways in the wind. The video’s caption: “#glamping.”

Jia swallowed, tossed the phone on the passenger seat, and tuned in to Radio Mirchi station. An upbeat RJ ran through a playlist of rainfall-themed Bollywood songs. Jia increased the volume as the singer crooned, earnestly thanking God for blessing the barren lands with rain.

But the throbbing beats were not enough to distract her from Seema’s warning.

It’s dangerous out there.

Her phone pinged with an email notification.

Her throat turned dry.

Mandatory Evacuation

Per the latest guidance issued by the governor of Texas, we hereby require all residents of Shadowland Apartments to evacuate the premises immediately. Gather your loved ones, pets, and emergency necessities and leave the evacuation zone as soon as possible. Please note that Shadowland Apartments will not be liable for trapped tenants who choose to ignore this order.

Heat crawled up her neck like a bout of fever. Scrolling through her contacts list, she reached the end in two pathetic thumb strokes. Then again, she had never needed to go past her sister’s name in the favorites tab. Seema was truly her emergency contact, her first call when a driver scratched her car in the parking lot of Patel Brothers store or when she and Ishaan needed a place to crash after Texas’s electric grid failures stripped their apartment of power.

Seema’s offer bubbled to the surface like suppressed vomit.

Like a radio station tuned to the frequency of Jia’s lowest vulnerability, her ex-husband’s words broadcast in her mind.

You cannot raise Ishaan by yourself. When you screw up, I’ll be there to take him away.

He had said “when,” not “if,” as though her failure was an inevitability. Jia’s body tensed. The custody evaluation was a storm cloud hovering above her. Every decision she made tonight was crucial. A single mistake could lead to the worst outcome, she and Ishaan trapped alone in darkness, the stench of rotting vegetables filling the air, rationing water while they waited for rescue.

She could imagine the follow-up email from Dev’s attorney.

It is evident that the mother’s poor judgment led to her son being trapped in a flooded apartment for days.

Jia straightened her spine. If Dev wanted to take Ishaan away, she was not going to make it easy for him.

Her options whittled down; a decision was made.

She would pick up her son from Ms. Nikki’s house and go to stay with Seema.

Even if that meant coming face-to-face with Vipul.

Two

Her nose inches from the steering wheel, Jia squinted at the windshield that remained stubbornly blurry despite the urgent swish-swish of the wipers set at full speed. Blinking red sockets of malfunctioning traffic signals seesawed under the pressure of fierce winds. Jia’s sedan trundled along Highway 6, in her best estimation of the middle lane, cutting a path through floodwater. The car jerked as if a malevolent spirit were pushing it into a ditch. Currents of churning waves swelled from all directions.

Incessant flash flood warnings made her phone jump in the cupholder like a frog in boiling water.

DON’T DROWN, TURN AROUND.

A glance at her son in the passenger seat instantly calmed her nerves. His lanky frame angled sideways, he peered out the window, shoulders slouched under phantom backpack handles.

Loving Ishaan was a lesson in perception. He bore a striking resemblance to Dev, with his sharp aquiline nose and messy hair, but the same features she had come to revile in her ex, she adored in her son.

When Jia gently nudged the accelerator, a tidal wave of water splashed against the bonnet. The car sputtered for a second. She licked her dry lips. Damn it. If the engine flooded and stalled, she and Ishaan would be stranded on this dark street as the car slowly filled up with water. That is, if the rising waves did not sweep them away first. Thanks to his Sunday lessons at the YMCA, Ishaan was a good swimmer, but Jia’s mom, in a misguided attempt to keep her daughters away from water, had never taught Seema and Jia how to swim.

Jia pictured herself flailing in the murky depths of the flooding road, silt entering her lungs, desperately trying to come up for air, trying to get Ishaan to safety as all remnants of life deserted her body. He would claim not only the last minutes of her life but also her death, for a young mother’s obituary elicited sympathy in readers for a life cut short, but the real sadness, that pang in the heart, was reserved for the children left motherless.

Get a grip on yourself. Jia herded in her spiraling thoughts.

Suddenly, Ishaan yelled, “Mom, watch out!”

Jia gasped. Farther ahead was a street she had taken countless times, but now there was no road.

The street was a river.

Her jaw dropped.

A sliver of a car’s roof bobbed in the water. Angry waves splashed against a half-submerged stop sign. A downed tree connected the opposite footpaths.

Her knuckles ghost white, Jia swerved the car in a sharp U-turn and scrambled to find alternate directions on her phone.

Ishaan said, “Mom, listen, let me help you. If you take a left on the next light, it connects to the same street.”US

Additional information

Weight	18.4 oz
Dimensions	1.1000 × 6.3800 × 9.2900 in
Imprint	Dutton
Format	General Trade
ISBN-13	09780593473375
ISBN-10	059347337X
Author	Nishita Parekh
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC045010, FIC054000
Subjects	cozy mystery, mystery books, FIC045010, mystery novels, suspense books, Asian American, crime books, murder mystery, detective novels, FIC054000, indian american, mystery and suspense, mystery thriller suspense, murder mystery books, fiction books, mysteries and thrillers, books fiction, books mystery, mystery and thrillers, romantic suspense, asian fiction, mystery, crime, relationships, family, modern, romance, thriller, drama, fiction, suspense, police, brothers, book club books, murder, novels, asian, crime fiction, thrillers, mysteries, texas