The Book of Cold Cases

by Simone St. James

There were dozens of books just like it, hundreds maybe, and they were the soundtrack of my life.

I was standoffish—I knew that. It was an inescapable part of my personality, a tendency I couldn’t turn off

I didn’t like people too close, and I was terrible at small talk.

you live too much inside your own head, overthinking everything,”

No one in my life wanted to talk about this stuff

The smart ones are experts at deception. They can make people believe anything; it’s what they do.

Anger, grief, fear, empathy—the research suggested that a true sociopath couldn’t feel any of them.

I had the crazy thought that sometimes it was a relief to be friends with someone who didn’t have any emotions.

There was no one to look out for me,

“You don’t want to help me,” she said. “No one wants to help me. No one ever has.”

There was no reason to dig up old bodies.

No one liked her. She was used to that.

the sweet girl was the one who got eaten. The bitter girl was the one who survived.

she didn’t like to be hugged, held, or even to hold hands.

egotistical and secretive, argumentative, blunt.

It made no sense, but guilt doesn’t have to.

I knew to my bones that I’d picked the right man. That he’d be what I needed him to be.

It’s amazing what you can do when you stop sleepwalking through your own life, isn’t it?”