Hammers on Bone (Persons Non Grata, #1)

by Cassandra Khaw

These days, it’s all bae and fleek, bootylicious selfies and cultural appropriation done on brand.

I’d have felt bad for their molls if we busted the furniture together. This might be the twenty-first century, a time when dames can hustle as well as any testicle-swinging Joe, but London’s no place for a one-income family.

He has the drooping jowls of a bulldog, a broad forehead, a drunk’s eyes, heavyset, yellow from a liver he’s tortured since he was eleven. There’s something clever to the cut of his mouth, though, like he’s in on a cosmic joke and about to cash out big on the punch line.

The words fly like kicks, hard and loose, ugly swings with no artistry at all, just raw emotion. I keep standing here, head cocked. One of the most effective tricks in a gumshoe’s playbook is the act of silence. Wait. Let the other guy pull the trigger first. It costs you nothing, and it gets you everything.