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I described my style as unflinching.
waxing faux-eloquent
“Whereas I knew perfectly well how little you thought of mine,”
consternation,
phenotypical
chiding.
“There’s a stack of mail for you by the front door. Get it on your way out. It’d be easier to clean if I didn’t have your crap around here, too.”
reprobate
Why did people always say it that way? The other murders. They weren’t the other murders, because I hadn’t been murdered. They were just “the murders.”
blithely.
amalgam
occluded
I was here, and these woods had been promised my death and denied it.
Shit. Was Mitch breaking up with me?
WE HAVE SEX at Cody.
You don’t even like murder mysteries. You have no idea what you’re doing.”
detritus
The mistake was the point. You couldn’t let someone in without it breaking you, but you could choose the way you broke.
He would have wanted you to see him.
Her illness was a wildfire, and the game was the spark that set it ablaze.
“Sort of,” she hedged. I could almost see the shift behind her eyes, her lies rebalancing. It was a neat trick.
“You make it sound like some mustache-twirling villain thing.
“What? I am sorry. I would rather not have to kill you,” she said, irritated.
She’d chosen us because one glance was enough to tell her that we were so damaged we wouldn’t see the rot already festering inside her.
Dear Mitch: You were right, it turns out. So fuck you.
whorl
“Should I get the shotgun?” Dad asked. “Dad.” I gave him a look. “Maybe the baseball bat. Just in case.”
“That’s the thing about trust, isn’t it?” Ethan said. “You gather all the evidence you can, use your brain, weigh character and past actions. But the final inch of it—that’s faith. Trust means believing in someone. It’s not just a conclusion. It’s a choice.”
