God’s sake, why did everything have to be such a sodding . . . trial?
Rachel Sherrill, thirty years old in a few days, master’s degree from Stanford in conservation biology, rising star in her world, still thought of herself as the smartest kid in the class.
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”
When Woodrow Wilson entered the lavish dining room aboard the presidential yacht . . .
Myron Bolitar was on the phone with his eighty-year-old father when the two FBI agents arrived to question him about the murder.
I understood that furtive expression. After twenty-five years of marriage I could tell when Curtis had misplaced something, and from the way he kept feeling his pockets and glancing around, I knew that whatever was lost was important.
There’s more to this story than the clickbait headlines, but yes, in simple terms, I had a dream life – then I took a flamethrower to it.
I dreamed that I dreamed about the musty grey soil of the island and the sweet perfume it emits after rainfall, a double remove from a place I will never visit again
SOME PEOPLE ARE natural storytellers. They know how to set the scene, find the right angle, when to pause for dramatic effect or breeze past inconvenient details.
She did not groan or gasp, or even sigh for me. Could only cry for me, silent rivers in the inert forest light.
