More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.
Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.
She had found that if she had something to accomplish, she would only do it if she sat down and wrote out a plan. Step by step. This was how she got her degree at night school. This was how she got her promotions to supervisor, deputy manager, and then manager. This was how she planned one of her paintings or sketches, which she worked on late into the night. This was how she planned the murder she was about to commit.
She had people she could call up but never did. Letting old friendships slide and not making new ones was a failing. Something she recognized.
Some people, those with money and the ear of power, never pay for their crimes the way ordinary people do.
She felt as if something had been taken from her. Something precious that she hadn’t even known she’d had. Not until it was gone. A cruel robbery. Her future. She began to cry and thought that she might never stop.
“It becomes different. More distant, I guess. The pain changes. It dulls. It’s always there, but it doesn’t always rip your heart out, you know?”
Mourning is sometimes a dull ache that won’t leave, and other times it’s like pricking your finger on a needle hidden in a shopping bag.
Her life was suddenly divided between the woman she had been before that night and the woman she was now. It was a line. A life before, and not much of a life after. This life felt a lot like death. Or a punishment that was just as bad.
“It’s like someone I love is dead, but I can’t grieve for them. Not properly. And so the pain just goes on.
