Dead Tired (The Expectant Detectives, #2)

by Kat Ailes

Yes, picnics are one of those charming fantasies/lies.

The day had that peaceful heaviness that covers you like a warm blanket of sunshine and invites one of those half waking, half sleeping naps.

jeans that had gone way past distressed and looked frankly distraught.

It’s good to have a friend who is morally superior to you in almost every respect—it gives you someone to look up to, someone to hold you accountable, someone to lie to on a regular basis.

Jack’s crying would drive a chalk-tipped drill down the blackboard of his spine.

It gave the impression that we were driving into a fairy tale—one of the proper old fairy tales that is, before they were Disneyfied, all sinister forests and crones and some sort of twisted moral.

“I imagine you’ll want to talk about babies and murders and stuff.” This seemed pretty accurate, so nobody quibbled.

I’m more or less expert at thinking the worst of myself, but tend to give others the benefit of the doubt. But “he said he didn’t do it” doesn’t cut much ice in a

SOMETIMES THERE just isn’t enough cake in the world to overcome the sheer embarrassment that is life. But I was giving it a good try.

all kids’ programs appear to have been conceived of, written, and produced by people who are, quite frankly, tripping balls.

Immediately brought to mind Sigmund and the Sea Monsters I grew up with - LOVE!

There was just tiredness and resignation and still the storm, raging all around us, violent and uncaring.