The Midnight Line (Jack Reacher, #22)

by Lee Child

Then he said, “My wife would say you feel guilty about something.” Reacher didn’t answer. “She reads books,” the driver said. “She thinks about things.”

“Tell your wife to keep on reading,” Reacher said. “She sounds like a very smart woman.”

Forest, presumably. Teddy Roosevelt, Reacher supposed, not Franklin. The great naturalist, except for when he was shooting things like tigers and elephants. People were complicated.

It was like swinging on a trapeze, letting go, flying through the air toward nobody, hoping somebody would get there and catch you before you fell. Maybe the new gold standard for insecurity. An addict with an empty pocket. Suspended above the abyss. Nothing in reserve.