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She’d done her best not to talk about it for twenty years, but talking about it out loud now was like bloodletting, painful and somehow necessary at the same time.
That was what books did—they turned off your thinking for you, put their thoughts in your head so you wouldn’t have your own.
Me when I read all the time
ceiling. The story itself was a horror so large it threatened to overtake everything in its path. She had to try to control it, not to let the nightmare send her off the path of what she was really after.
We like to believe that women wouldn’t do such things to other women—send them into the gas chambers with their children, put them in the ovens.
Others saw a pretty girl who had a defiant attitude; CeCe saw a white-hot fury that was banked so deeply, fed so carefully, that there was no way it would ever cease to burn.
Roberta had taken her grief and her anger and buried it, let it sink into her bones.
