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“How hard is it to keep an eye on one woman? I take six months. And you take six months. That was our agreement.” “Why is she still our responsibility?” “Because she’s our sister and we love her and if we don’t watch out for her, she will get involved with the wrong people, and destroy the world. Is that what you want?” “You always ask me that question, and you’re always disappointed with my answer.”
“Buckle up.” “Oh, God.” Charlie put on the seat belt. “We’re going to die before we even get to her.” “Stop whining. You know how hard we are to kill.” “Hard to kill doesn’t mean we can’t lose body parts in tragic car accidents. And we can’t exactly save our little sister if we’re both in prison . . . and legless.” “What is your obsession with losing your legs?” “It could happen!”
“I know you’re working hard to be a sociopath, but stop it.” “Sociopath is in the eye of the—” “—forensic psychologist working for the prosecution?”
“And how does that make you feel?” she asked the patient across from her. “That your mother treats you like that?” “Awful. I deserve better!” “You do deserve better,” Stevie insisted. “Just because your mother is the dictator of a small country and kills those she considers enemies of the state, doesn’t mean that your opinion doesn’t matter.” “You’re right, Stevie. You’re so right!”
“She’s completely sober right now, which tells me one thing.” Vic gazed down at her. “Which is?” “She’s a serial killer.” “Because she . . . smiles?” “Yes.”
“You’re being overdramatic. Stop it.” “I will not stay out here!” Stevie screeched, legs and arms now swinging wildly. “I will not be eaten! My brain is too important for future societies to allow it to be eaten!”
“Are guns involved?” “In ice hockey? No.” “Knives? Or bombs? Or Peruvian drug lords?” “Not that I’m aware.” “Then Charlie won’t care.”
“Well, dude, what did you expect? You had to know once Charlie found out, she was going to be pissed. You’re just lucky she only beat the shit out of you.” She paused, then added, “You’re lucky you still have your arms.” “Ungrateful. You’re all ungrateful!”
“So, let me sum up—we’ve got one vote for total annihilation and one vote for forcing them to join the hockey team. Am I correct?” “Yes,” both females replied.
“Why are all those bears standing in front of our house?” Stevie asked, panic in her voice rising. “They’ve come to eat us, haven’t they?” “Oh, my God!” Max exploded. “No one wants to eat your scrawny ass!” “I have a high metabolism!”
“How do you do that?” Berg asked when both younger sisters immediately fell silent. “Years of training and abuse, my friend. Years of training and abuse.” “You’re like one of those Russian bear trainers.” “Yeah. It’s great until they suddenly turn on you on live TV and rip your scalp off.” “You do know we’re right here?” Max asked. “Shut up.”
“Do you know who I am?” “I know I don’t care who you—” “I am an artist. People beg to sit for me. And I’m asking you. Bears. You should feel honored.” “And yet I just want to punch you in the face.”
“Should I go there and kill everybody?” “Why is that always your first suggestion?” “It’s the most expedient.”
She walked into the house with the dog right behind her. She closed the door but had only taken a few steps when she heard a knock on it. She went back and found Berg standing there, appearing a bit disgruntled. “What are you doing?” she demanded, in no mood. “Get in here.” “You closed the door in my face.” She headed toward the kitchen. “Not on purpose.” “That does not make me feel better. Especially when you made sure the dog got in.”
“I still make you nervous, Stevie?” she asked as she slid on her sunglasses. “Everything makes me nervous.” Stevie thought a moment. “Well . . . not everything. But man-eaters definitely make me nervous.” “But tigers are man-eaters . . . and you’re half tiger.” Stevie stared out the front window for several seconds ruminating on that bit of information before admitting, “Dear God. I’m terrified of myself.”
