A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #4)

by Louise Penny

Then he laughed at himself. Seeing things not there, hearing words unspoken. He’d come to the Manoir Bellechasse to turn that off, to relax and not look for the stain on the carpet, the knife in the bush, or the back. To stop noticing the malevolent inflections that rode into polite conversation on the backs of reasonable words. And the feelings flattened and folded and turned into something else, like emotional origami. Made to look pretty, but disguising something not at all attractive.

I think we’ve all known people like those Gamache is describing. The smile on the face and the sting in the tail. It’s a truism, and it certainly has been true in my life, that I find comfort in knowing I can turn hurt into something useful. I can unfold the origami and turn it into my own creation. Eventually. Once I get out of the fetal position.