Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect: A Novel (The Ernest Cunningham Mysteries Book 2)

by Benjamin Stevenson

Holidays are, after all, mostly extravagant charades with which to justify an addiction.

Human beings, by nature, are so easily overtaken by emotion, our base urges. We feel certain things so keenly—love, sure, but also hatred—that we are practically designed to implode.

Anger is hard to summon twice.

The rocks in front of us had existed for millions of lifetimes. They would be here when our bones were dust and our books were mulch. We were blips. But two blips are bigger than one blip.