Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone (Ernest Cunningham, #1)

by Benjamin Stevenson

I wouldn’t be friends with people who called after midnight.

But age gives perspective, and now I know the difference between being popular and being talked about.

I decided there’s nothing sadder than a man trying to stick up for a woman who can stick up for herself,

But that was key to the whole thing: to never let the reality outweigh the image of success.

I woke to a hammering at my door. Of course I did. You’ve read these kinds of books before.

The phone rang, startling us. Of course it did. You’ve read these kinds of books before.

One day you’ll realize family isn’t about whose blood runs in your veins, it’s who you’d spill it for.”

I’d seen Marcelo scream at a teenager over froth on his latte: if he didn’t respect a barista, I doubted he respected a mountain.

Am I really the detective just because it’s my voice you have to listen to? I guess this whole story would be different if someone else wrote it. Maybe I’m only the Watson after all.

I’m not sure if serving divorce papers by mail counts as writing letters, but if it does, he wrote some letters too.

Time was not only borrowed, it was charging interest.

Anger is as much an heirloom as any Rolex.

Her faculties were more important to her than her pain:

People die in horror movies by splitting up, but that’s not how people die on mountains: they die by going back for each other.