Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

The Keenes, however, will remain the purest form of family. Underground.

They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

“I’ve got to keep you safe.” He pointed over to a mylar balloon swaying in the gap where Natalie’s body was found. It read Get Well Soon. “That to me,” Richard said, “perfectly sums up Wind Gap.”