# Read the first page of The Dry by Jane Harper Read the opening of The Dry by Jane Harper free, no signup. A federal agent returns to his drought-stricken hometown for a friend's funeral. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/the-dry-jane-harper - Genre: Mysteries - Year: 2017 - ISBN: 9781250105615 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9781250105615&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9781250105615 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9781250105615 ## The opening It wasn't as though the farm hadn't seen death before, and the blowflies didn't discriminate. To them there was little difference between a carcass and a corpse. The drought had left the flies spoiled for choice that summer. They sought out unblinking eyes and sticky wounds as the farmers of Kiewarra leveled their rifles at skinny livestock. No rain meant no feed. And no feed made for difficult decisions as the tiny town shimmered under day after day of burning blue sky. "It'll break," the farmers said as the months ticked over into a second year. They repeated the words out loud to each other like a mantra, and under their breaths to themselves like a prayer. But the weathermen in Melbourne disagreed. Besuited and sympathetic in air-conditioned studios, they made a passing reference most nights at six. Officially the worst conditions in a century. The weather pattern had a name, the pronunciation of which was never quite settled. El Niño. At least the blowflies were happy. The finds that day were unusual, though. Smaller and with a smoothness to the flesh. Not that it mattered. They were the same where it counted. The glassy eyes. The wet wounds. The body in the clearing was the freshest. It took the flies slightly longer to discover the two in the farmhouse, despite the front door swinging open like an invitation. Those that ventured beyond the initial offering in the hallway were rewarded with another, this time in the bedroom. This one was smaller, but less engulfed by competition. First on the scene, the flies swarmed contentedly in the heat as the blood pooled black over tiles and carpet. Outside, washing hung still on the rotary line, bone dry and stiff from the sun. A child’s scooter lay abandoned on the stepping-stone path. Just one human heart beat within a kilometer radius of the farm. So nothing reacted when, deep inside the house, the baby started crying. Even those who didn’t darken the door of the church from one Christmas to the next could tell there would be more mourners than seats. A bottleneck of black and gray was already forming at the entrance as Aaron Falk drove up, trailing a cloud of dust and cracked leaves. Neighbors, determined but trying not to appear so, jostled each other for the advantage as the scrum trickled through the doors. Across the road the media circled. Falk parked his sedan next to a pickup truck that had also seen better days and killed the engine. The air conditioner rattled into silence, and the interior began to warm immediately. He allowed himself a moment to scan the crowd, although he didn’t really have time. He’d dragged his heels the whole way from Melbourne, blowing out the five-hour drive to more than six. Satisfied no one looked familiar, he stepped out of the car. The late-afternoon heat draped itself around him like a blanket. He snatched opened the backseat door to get his jacket, searing his hand in the process. After the briefest hesitation, he grabbed his hat from the seat. Wide-brimmed in stiff brown canvas, it didn’t go with his funeral suit. But with skin the blue hue of skim milk for half the year and a cancerous-looking cluster of freckles the rest, Falk was prepared to risk the fashion faux pas. Pale from birth with close-cropped, white-blond hair and invisible eyelashes, he’d often felt during his thirty-six years that the Australian sun was trying to tell him something. It was a message easier to ignore in the tall shadows of Melbourne than in Kiewarra, where shade was a fleeting commodity. Falk glanced once at the road leading back out of town, then at his watch. The funeral, the wake, one night and he was gone. Eighteen hours, he calculated. No more. Keeping that firmly in mind, he loped toward the crowd, one hand on his hat as a sudden hot gust sent hems flying. ## Books with a similar feel - [In the Woods by Tana French](https://uncovered.ink/read/in-the-woods-tana-french.md) - [Missing White Woman by Kellye Garrett](https://uncovered.ink/read/missing-white-woman-kellye-garrett.md) - [When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson](https://uncovered.ink/read/when-will-there-be-good-news-kate-atkinson.md) - [The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-seven-deaths-of-evelyn-hardcastle-stuart-turton.md) - [Mindgame by Anthony Horowitz](https://uncovered.ink/read/mindgame-anthony-horowitz.md) - [Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn](https://uncovered.ink/read/sharp-objects-gillian-flynn.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. Rights holders can request removal at https://uncovered.ink/takedown.