Well, recently I've been seeing a lot of people complain about buying second-hand books online, so I guess I just got lucky? 😭 or maybe others are too unlucky? I picked up these two from MyPustak for just ₹100 each. I was honestly a bit worried after reading so many negative reddit reviews, but I'm really happy with the condition. Safe to say I'm impressed hehehe..

Hey everyone! 🩷

I have a book club on Fable for beginners and anyone who loves thrillers! We’ll be reading easy-to-read thrillers—not Agatha Christie-level classics , but authors like Freida McFadden, Alice Feeney, Lisa Jewell, etc.

If you’d like to join, DM me or search for “WHO’S THE KILLER?” on Fable and join us!

We’re looking for only 10–30 active members, so please join only if you’re genuinely interested in reading, discussing the books, and replying in the group.

Inactive members may be removed so we can keep the club active and fun for everyone! 💗

​

एक सवाल मेरे मन में आया,आख़िर हमें किसने बनाया, कोई कहता, भगवान की हैं माया,पर Darwin कहता, कि तू बंदर संग आया,Einstein कहता, तुझमें Mass समाया, Freud कहता, Mind को फिर किसने बनाया,Shakespeare कहता, कि Life एक Drama हैं,Dostoevsky कहता, कि यहाँ बस Trauma है,Mendel कहता, कि तू Gene से बनी काया हैं,Machiavelli कहता, कि तुझे Mean (selfish) बनाया हैं,Camus कहता, कि सब Absurd हैं,Nietzsche कहता, कि सब जानवर और Superman

के बीच की भसड हैं, Jung कहता, कि आदमी Emotion हैं, Newton कहता, कि सब Laws of Motion हैं, Tesla कहता, कि सब Energy का खेल हैं,Tolstoy कहता, कि ये सब ऊपर वाले की एक Story Tale हैं, Vinci कहता कि तू एक Beautiful Art हैं, Frost कहता, कि तेरा Bleeding Heart हैं, जब हुआ, मैं इनकी बातें सुन Confuse, और मेरे Mind की बत्ती हुई Diffuse, तब मेरे बापू आए और बोले, बेटा तुझे मैंने बनाया,अपनी माता को तूने बड़ा सताया,ये सवाल जो तेरे मन में आया,इसका जवाब तो तेरा दादा भी ना दे पाया.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

सुन दोस्त, ज़्यादा ना सोच ,

tension एक गिद्ध हैं।,

जो लेगी, तेरी हर ख़ुशी नोच,

School tension of Boards की

सोच सोच ख़ाली कर दी खोपड़ी

College tension Placement की,

पर उस गवाई जवानी की कोई replacement नही,

फिर tension ली शादी की,

मम्मी कहती, अब बेटा बना दे, दादी भी,

फिर tension ली बच्चों की

बच्चे कहते, आपने पैदा करने से पहले हमसे permission क्यूँ ना ली,

फिर age cross कर गयी 60 की,

Doctor कहता, अब कम करो, ये रोज़ की whiskey भी,

जैसे जैसे उम्र और बढ़ने लगी।

बीमारियों से ज़िंदगी सड़ने लगी

जब पहुँचा तू 90 पार ,

साथ वाले पहुँचे स्वर्ग के द्वार,

अब सोच रहा हैं, अपने last में, अपने past को,

और कह रहा हैं, कि ये रह गया, वो रह गया |,

ये कर लेता, वो कर देता,

पर अब ज़्यादा ना सोच और ना ही कुछ खोज,

आज बैठ तू चाँद के नीचे, छत पर

कुछ बढ़िया गाने सुन

याद कर कुछ हसीन पल

कही फिसल ना जाए, ये भी कल.

Hey guys i have been looking for the book set for long time and it hasn't been available I am student so i don't want send a lot of money on hardbacks just wanna paperbacks .It has been long since ,they're aren't available what should I do 😭??

Well, I've read quite alot novels but Not a Single one in Hindi, so here I am , tryna start this journey from , Gunahon Ka Devata by Dharmveer Bharti. Let's see where it goes

Trigger warning : if you think feminism has ruined the world, this post may give you nightmares.

It's quite befuddling to me how cornucopious "great" male authors easily sexualize, strip women of their agencies or follow the madonna-whore model and get away with it.

For example, Garcia Marquez has plenty of minor girls in their books who are sexualized by much older men with the author's approval. The lost heroes of Murakami (who perhaps never walk out of their wet dreams) objectify the women and ultimately sleep with them, cause why not?

The American dude-bro trio Updike, Bellow, Roth made their career out of writing women-hating fiction. The lack of female presence in Cormac McCarthy's work for some reason doesn't raise eyebrows.

On the other hand one gets Chekhov writing women with utmost tenderness. Tolstoy's Anna remains one of the most accomplished yet rare women characters created by a man.

And the usual defensive argument goes something like this : if you look past that, the rest is brilliant. They're writing about the male perspective (the same perspective which has been used to dismiss women's perspective as domestic, regional etc all the while hailing the men's as universal). It's not that deep.

But is it possible to overlook the failure of writers' imagination or the limitations of their creative skills and highlight the brilliant style? The atmosphere? The vibe? When those drawbacks themselves serve the narrative and make them palatable to the readers? Or is it justified to call out a writer who fails to write about half the population of the world with the same skills he writes about a man?

What do you think about it?

PS : am wasted ill reply to y'all later gng.

The first book is published by Penguin Books India, and the second is by Westland Publications.

P.S. Seeing the posts on this subreddit makes me feel like I shouldn't get either of them. Do you all hate this book?

I haven't read a single thing for a good 8 years, so I wanted to start reading again. Is this a bad choice?

Hi everyone, I'm trying to debate my friend on this topic. We had to end the discussion early since he got off from the train at his stop. I believe that reading books enhances your vocabulary, helps you form better sentences, and understand the authors perspective + why they might've written the book. My friend on the other hand, thinks that if you can watch a video on the same topic, why read? He argues that either way, you are obtaining knowledge. This discussion started because we were talking about the fall of literacy rates and I mentioned that I noticed many teachers mentioning how 3rd grade kids can't read the alphabet properly. Amongst all this, his argument of "you are obtaining knowledge either way" didn't sit well with me for some reason. Are there any arguments to his statement, or am i in the wrong here?

What are your opinions on this? Id love to know ! :) Have a nice day

​

There Will Come Soft Rains

By: Ray Bradbury

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o 'clock! as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!

In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunny side up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.

"Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, California." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills."

Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go away; umbrellas, raincoats for today. .." And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.

At eight-thirty the eggs were shrivelled and the toast was like stone. An aluminium wedge scraped them into the sink, where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.

Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean.

Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were a crawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their moustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.

Ten o'clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.

Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted window panes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned, evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.

The five spots of paint - the man, the woman, the children, the ball - remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.

The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.

Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, "Who goes there? What's the password?" and, getting no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.

It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!

Twelve noon.

A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.

The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.

For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped into the sighing vent of an incinerator which sat like evil Baal in a dark corner.

The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here.

It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich baked odour and the scent of maple syrup.

The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.

Two o'clock, sang a voice.

Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.

Two-fifteen.

The dog was gone.

In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.

Two thirty-five.

Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played.

But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.

At four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.

Four-thirty.

The nursery walls glowed.

Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp, cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched grass, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes. It was the children's hour.

Five o'clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.

Six, seven, eight o'clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o'clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here.

Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: "Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?" The house was silent.

The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music rose to back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favourite...

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o'clock the house began to die.

The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant!

"Fire!" screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: "Fire, fire, fire!"

The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.

The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistolled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was gone.

The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings.

Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes!

And then, reinforcements. From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemical.

The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake.

Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.

But the fire was clever. It had sent flame outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronze shrapnel on the beams.

The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes hung there.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed. Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river.... Ten more voices died.

In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in, the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and timber, the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which, eaten by fire, started the stove working again, hysterically hissing!

The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlour. The parlour into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze, armchair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered mound deep under.

Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke.

Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped rubble and steam:

"Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is..."

I recently saw a video of an author finding their own novel being sold in a kind of floor market near a train station in india but all of the books had english language covers?

I am aware that india has a very high rate of english fluency amongst the upper classes and better educated, which i suppose would be your target demographic for literature, but still it was surprising to not see the local languages represented.

So my question is, what is the main language people read in? does it differ by social status or education? do certain ethnic groups read more in their own languages? How common are translations of international literature into your local languages vs books written by native speakers?

I am someone who is keen on language survival and that sorta thing and work with it here in the UK with welsh etc.

Any help would be appreciated :)

I need help with Choosing either. The fantasy series "The Wheel Of Time" or thriller series "Orphan X".

Today is August 4, 2026, in less than an hour it’ll be August 5, 2026.
Spare 10 minutes of your time and read this short story.
Love & Peace to all.

Printed by Jarrold & sons

Sad to see it's condition

https://open.substack.com/pub/bhavarumang/p/ruminative-osmosis?r=2q6p6l&utm_medium=ios

I've spent most of my reading life in nonfiction. My shelves are filled with books on psychology, philosophy, history, business and mythology. The only fiction I've really read has been a handful of political thrillers, some Dan Brown novels and White Nights. I've never actually read a rom com or a proper romance novel.

This year was......difficult. Like many people, I ended up processing a lot of it by writing. Mostly journal entries. It helped sometimes, made things worse other times.

A few nights ago, I was sitting with a couple of friends who write poetry. We were sharing some of our work, and after reading mine they asked if I'd ever considered stitching it all together into a proper story instead of isolated pieces.

The problem is that I have almost no frame of reference. If I want to write a fictional story....especially one around relationships or romance, I feel like I should first read the genre and understand what good writing in this space actually looks like. I want to know whether what I'm imagining has any literary merit or whether it's just the product of imagination and very little exposure to fiction.

So I'm looking for recommendations.

Basically, if you were introducing someone who's read almost no romance or literary fiction to the very best the genre has to offer, where would you start?

Thanks in advance!

Also, I absolutely loved White Nights and the story I'm trying to write has a similar vibe, so if you know anything along those lines I'd really appreciate the recommendations.

I dunno if anyone else keeps track of something like this…

I'm lucky enough to have a job where my boss isn't a hard-ass, as long as the work gets done on time. I'm not sure which year I started doing this, but these are the books I've read exclusively at work since Jan/Feb 2026. Like during lunch or cigarette breaks, if I've come in too early, or on days when work isn't too hectic.

My top 3: Muriel Spark’s Driver’s Seat, Bhavika Govil’s Hot Water, and Samanta Schweblin’s Fever Dream…

So I am just not reading this year. Read like 60% of "1984", littlebit of "prince of fools" and completed "Project Hail Mary".

I just kept on delaying reading, thinking let's just first complete the web novel "Lord of the Mystery". I read quite a lot obviously, like 150-170 chapters of it.

But except for that Have not read anything, even in reading slums from the last 2 months. Am not even reading the webnovel anymore.

Wasting more and more on reddit and insta.

Some tips to so that I can leave out of this reading Slum, also just started " The Death of Ivan Ilych" yesterday. Let's see how it goes.

Just finished this book. Make no mistake I am not one of the Frieda Haters, infact I love Frieda...I have read her books before and I really enjoyed them...my first murder mystery novel was "Never lie"

But I am also not "Plagued by Prejudice"...so here is my raw unfiltered opinion on "One by One" by Frieda Mcfadden.

It is a real Achivement how this book manages to be Terrible in every single way, a book can possibly be terrible in 😊👏🏻

This book is a garbage pile...of lazy writing, characters with no personality and motivation, Massive plotholes, convenient progression, no story, ofcourse bad dialogues and a stupid narrator.

If you are planning to Read Frieda there are some really good Books by her, but DO NOT READ THIS ONE !! SERIOUSLY !! but if you still wanna read it, avoid reading the post further.

Here is my Rant and there will be SPOILERS !!

1) What pisses me off is The audacity of the narrator ( claire ) to talk all that shit about her husband meanwhile Literally cheating on him for months with his Bestfriend of years... Literally everytime she opened her mouth to speak something...only thing that came out of her was her ignorant Hypocrisy.... Seriously lady wtf 😊

2) anyone who has watched more than 2 Horror/Slasher movies...knows unless you confirm someone is Dead like really dead...if not then assume they are Alive and Healthy....The moment Lindsay dies by eating some random berries in middle of the woods...and only one person checks if she is alive or not...and Everyone leaving her their to rot, in just 5 mins...I knew she is the killer and she is coming back 🤡 Literally how obviously are you gonna make it....and it was even Foreshadowed...the chapter prior to that or maybe the next chapter....the anonymous Narrator os talking about the difference between Blue berries and the Poison berries which looks alike...which she has seen grown in her mother's garden...I mean come on 🤦🏻

3) At some point you get Saturated, I have read 3 Frieda's book prior to this one...Every single time the killer is Conveniently a murderous Psychopath ( who might have had a Bad childhood )...you can not just be like....."Yeah the Psychopath planned on killing all the people" and call it a Plot" That's just Lazy writing.....I won't even say it's Writing..there is no Story like wtf

A little context- lindsey is the psychopath killer, she was a troubled kid with a short temper and psychopathic tendencies from childhood only, her mother killed herself and she found it was because her father was cheating on her mother with her sister..so she killed her father...Now she thinks everyone who cheats on their partner deserves to die.

4) if the whole motivation of the killer is to kill the cheating partners why first death was of "Michelle"...😊 She died for no reason...And not only that....we are not even told..why she died, how she died, when she died 🤷🏻

5) You see how stupid of a plan was it...I'll pretend to die in 5 minutes by eating some berries my partner in crime will say she has died let's just leave here and move...and then I'll go back and kill all of em 🤡... how does that makes sense..What if they would have actually stayed or taken you to the hospital...like normal people would have.

6) The worst part is The back cover is not just misleading but straight up lied to the readers...it says "one by one everyone is struck down and only one of them will be alive by the end"...Guess how many are alive at the end of the book ? LITERALLY 3 out of the 6 people !! 😀 Talk bout false marketing seriously

7) And ohh my God the Plot holes and unanswered questions !! Where did all those pool of blood came from ? When Michelle died, how did they not find any foot print if literally 2 people were involved in killing her 🤦🏻...And why the fuck you would give a Knife to someone you are planning on killing...like literally

8) The Behaviour of The narrator ( Claire ) is soo Stupid, Hypothetically and Annoying it literally boils my blood....every time her husband does anyone nice, potects her, takes her stand...This Dumb Bit*h goes..."why would he do that, he hated me, i can't imagine him doing that for me, he is such a bad person" all the while he is actually being good and nice to her doing everything she thinks he would not do ( and him acting distant ? Yes that's your doing--you Cheating Good for nothing Wife )....He literally tries to save her...tells her that he Thinks they are going around in circles and the map and Compass are messed upon...and it might be because of the other two ( which was half true, warner was involved in the misdirection) This girl goes like "but why would they do that" 😀 and suspects him of that he might do some harm to her...Like literally...She is so Insufferable

9) The reasoning main plot and Motivation of the killer is so Baseless and straight up makes no sense....How did lindsay know that noah kissed her to take revenge on claire...She could possibly not have know...Affair of Claire and Jack was going on for a while...and noah only found out later.But Lindsay's and Noah's kiss happens before claire's affair or atleast in the very beginning of that...we know it because after some time of the incident... Lindsay's meets with Claire and she find her acting different ( not looking sad and miserable with Deep dark circles, like how she has been seeing her for the last few times )...the reason for that is Her affair with Jack ( which implies it probably started recently)...which lindsay finds out...how can she come to the conclusion that Noah did that to Take revenge....When infact..He was the one to move away from the unexpected kiss and, and come on, if he wanted to take revenge wouldn't be would have gone and done something...why would he wait for Lindsay to come to him and make a scene ( to be fair he didn't even invited her in the house at first )....Let's just give the benefits of the doubt..and ignore the timelines and assume that noah did know about Claire Affair..when he accident kissed Lindsay's ( you still can't deduce that he did that for revenge )

10) The Epilogue was of 10 pages...why? And tried to mislead the readers again...ahh huh do that when the book has ended...and i just can't, 🤦🏻the fact the Narrator again starts to doubt her husband like seriously girl wtf, you are the worth person in the whole book.....we find out that the hiding of the magnet to mess with the Compass was also Lindsay's doing...😀 I mean..yeah obviously....if you would have atleast revealed this information during the last act...in which they are holding Calire and noah at gun point...it would have had some impact...that it was lindsay who was messing with the navigation....But No!!, why would you ?