A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)

by Louise Penny

In my teens my drug of choice was acceptance, in my twenties it was approval, in my thirties it was love, in my forties it was Scotch. That lasted a while,’ she admitted. ‘Now all I really crave is a good bowel movement.’

She looked like a laundry hamper. With a head. A very small, very worn head. All ten hairs on her tiny wizened scalp were standing straight up from the winter static in the house.

‘I’ll be dead when you get back.’ ‘I’ll miss you.’