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Perhaps she was glass. But glass is only brittle until it breaks. Then it’s sharp.
She had been spoiled rotten by her power, by the easy knowing that came with it. Not that she saw everything—that would be a short road to long madness—but she saw enough.
Mitch had that look on his face, that carefully blank look that adults got when they were trying to convince you everything was fine. They always assumed that if they didn’t tell you a thing, you wouldn’t know it. But that wasn’t true.
People said cities didn’t sleep, but they did get quiet. And dark.
The street bit into her elbows and scraped her shin as she twisted around and raised the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “Let go,” she snarled.
the events of earlier that night. Or was it tomorrow? Time felt muddy.
Time is mud
She was bored by being called beautiful, and then a bitch. Stunning, and then stuck up. A ten, and then a tease.
Every woman everywhere
Marcella had always been pretty. The kind of pretty people couldn’t ignore. Bright blue eyes and pitch-black hair, a heart-shaped face atop the lean, clean lines of a model. Her father told her she’d never have to work. Her mother said she’d have to work twice as hard. In a way, both of them were right.
No, Marcus was trouble for one simple, delicious reason: his family was in the mob.
They fit together perfectly. A matching set.
Eli had never known there were so many kinds of happiness, let alone so many ways to express it.
He was met only by the dampened silence of nested space.
“Go to parties!” said Maggie. “Drink cheap beer! Make bad choices! Date pretty girls!” He leaned back in his chair. “Do pretty girls count as bad choices, or are those two separate things?”
But Marcella wasn’t joking. She had only settled for a place at her husband’s side because no one would give her a seat at the table. But she was done settling.
Jonathan had seen the addiction coming, watched it roll in like a tide, but he was already wet, and he couldn’t drag himself back to shore.
Addiction is a disease
He lay, stretched out on the cot, staring up at his reflection in the mirror ceiling as he turned the problem like a coin between his fingers.
“I guess you didn’t burn the body.” “God dammit, Eli,” snarled Stell. He shook his head. “How is this possible?” “Victor’s always been terrible at staying dead.”
Still, he knew it was her. Not because he’d seen a photograph, but because of the way she stood, with all the casual grace of a predator.
