Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake, #4)

by Rachel Caine

Women are always, somehow, to blame for the acts of men; that’s more true now than it ever has been.

“Your momma’s a badass bitch,”

I take the coffee with me—it’s good and fresh, and I long ago learned that life is better with it than not.

There’s some vague legend of a Native American princess committing suicide by jumping off it onto rocks, the stupid bullshit that white people say to make themselves all romantic about the original residents they killed off in the first place.

Never agree. Never admit. Never ask. Never sign. Even a simple yes to something is a hook they sink into you, a crack in your armor, and it can be used in all kinds of dangerous ways. Enough hooks sunk in, and they can drag you where they want you to go. Alert and neutral, always accept food and drink but never ask for it. The training comes back fast, as it was meant to.

Defeat is sour in my mouth.

First step in resisting interrogations: never say yes. Never give any answer that can either emotionally compromise you or be twisted into hurting others.

You think you’re different and special, but you’re not even original. You’re ISIS with a Bible. You’re Jim Jones minus the poisoned drinks. You’re a copy of a copy, asshole. But it doesn’t matter. People like you always end badly. But the important thing is . . . you end.”

You’re Lilith and Eve and the serpent all in one. You’re the mother of all sins.”

I want him to suffer.

Wonder and fear and hope all at once.

And like Sister Harmony, I don’t know what’s coming next. And that’s amazing.