Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake, #2)

by Rachel Caine

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t sleep. When you sleep, you give up the choice to control memory.

It isn’t fair, or right, but it’s dreadfully human, the way we tear each other apart.

“If I’m already dead to the people I love, I might as well die for them.”

It’s bleak, and it makes perfect sense to me. I think that for the first time Sam Cade really pities me now, as if I’m broken. But I’m not. I’m forged hard out of pieces, like a bar of solid steel. There’s nothing soft left. I’m too broken to be broken anymore.

But the past never leaves us. It’s in every breath, every cell, every second. I know that now.

Nightmares aren’t frightening once you wake up. Memories are.

All this time I thought I knew what evil was. Mom knew. I pretended. But now I know it’s that room in the cabin. That pile of bones. Evil’s a quiet place, and darkness.