Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: detective‎ (33)

Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popula

Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popularity points. In the last couple years, I’d managed to get involved in stuff like debate and student government, but I’d never managed to be, well, normal.

Totally normal girls don’t wear four-inch Prada heels to the library, or stalk criminals, or wear four-inch Prada heels while stalking criminals.

I felt for the picture of the girl hidden in The Cleave. Next to my other important stuff—cell phone, lip gloss—she was there.

My virginity wasn’t exactly a secret. One of those trashy magazines had even broadcast it in an article called “Ruby Rose: The Virgin Vigilante.”

I needed a few moments with my oldest and dearest friend: Gladys—aka my shoe closet.
Happy to see me, too, Gladys and all her Pips stood at attention for my entry—except for my tan Dolce & Gabbana Catwoman boots, which had to be neatly hung to avoid damage or creases. I had to take care of my Sleeping Beauties.
“Gladys, I need help.” My words echoed into the space.

Big Black, my overly tinted SUV and current best friend.

I looked down at the shimmering weapon—aka Smith, my .38 Special Revolver with built-in laser sight that I’d gotten for my Sweet Sixteenth.

“Liam, it’s never OK to kill,” I said flatly. I had good reason to do it, sure, but that didn’t make it “OK.”

I pulled the trigger.
The deafening gunshot rang out.
The world changed into a black-and-white movie with a river of red flowing all around me.
A ruby-red river of my own making.

I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. He would never fight again.

I renewed my grip on the knife and slashed once as hard as I could, until I felt the blade slide through tissue and hit bone. He went limp.

“Things have long been out of control, Liam. I have killed, or been responsible for...” I stopped to count with my fingers. “Seven deaths now. Seven!”

A falling sensation rushed over me, and a sickening crack echoed through my skull.

And I was losing consciousness.

My world quickly spun out from under me. Swirling. Darkness. Pain. The last thing I saw was Liam, still on the ground, soundlessly calling out my name.

A jarring pain stabbed through my chest, and a coughing fit brought me back to reality.
The last thing I felt was being carried away in the arms of a strong man.

He’d done it again. He wanted to toy with me. And I’d been stupid, impatient, and impetuous enough to walk right into his trap.

Ha, I was insane. I was about to sneak out of my nice safe home and go looking for a rapist to convince him to help me. Real smart, Ruby. Best idea ever.

“How about that I killed somebody,” I said. “I’m a Vigilante Teen Assassin. At least that’s what TMZ called me."

I stared at his lips. Were they telling the truth? Or were they like chocolate—promising happiness, providing a few moments of heaven, then ultimately betraying me, going behind my back and putting junk in the trunk?
It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

“I nearly killed my father,” he said point-blank, staring at his hands as if they might still have blood on them.

“Protecting yourself would be calling the police, not taking a baseball bat and putting your own father in a coma for seven days.”
“You don’t know all the facts,” I said, a little thrown by the baseball-bat thing. Liam hadn’t mentioned that detail, and I flinched at the image of him beating his father.

“You know what I think?” I said. “I think whoever killed Erin knew about you and me and her.” I carefully sidestepped the term love triangle, since

“You know what I think?” I said. “I think whoever killed Erin knew about you and me and her.” I carefully sidestepped the term love triangle, since I didn’t want to go there.

I would never see Erin again.
At least, not alive.

...yanking my black hair, slapping, biting, and finally digging her nails into the delicate flesh of my forearm.
I reared back in pain and horror as blood gushed out in rivulets, running over my wrists onto the browning grass. Her nails had been filed into seriously badass points.

“You honestly want me to sit on your lap?”
“And put your feet over mine. That way you’ll get the feel of how and when to release the clutch.”

“Let it go.”
How could I let go of something so nightmarish as a nice guy being framed for a murder he didn’t commit?

“What if I told you, Miss Graves,” Zabriskie continued with a touch of glee, “that there wasn’t a chance that Matt Houser would have been benched this season?”
Goosebumps rose on my arms. “Why?”
“Because he finished the class with a B.”

“The guy Mrs. Krezky saw arguing with Erin that night sounds exactly like Matt. Short brown hair, Potsdam Panthers jacket, and everything.”

I tried not to think about Matt having sex with Erin.
“It’s a statistical fact that women are more likely to be victims of domestic homicide when they’re pregnant,” Sara said.

“Matt is a boy with...”—she bit her lower lip—“bad intentions, I think. The more distance between you two, the better.”
But I would never distance myself from Matt. And Mom knew it.
You could tell by the fear in her eyes.

We’d dubbed them the Tragically Normals, because they were truly living the ultimate high school experience. Good grades? Check. Lettering in sports? Check. Nice cars, cute boyfriends, adorable girlfriends, clear skin, ideal physical proportions? Check, check, check, check, and check.

TO: Robert R. Amidon, Chief of Police
FROM: Detective Joe Henderson
RE: REQUEST FOR THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE POLICE CRIME LAB
DEPARTMENT USE ONLY—CONFIDENTIAL
It appeared to be an internal police memo. It was so unlike Perfect Bob to release something this top secret, much less fax it to Mom.

It was odd to see Erin this plasticized and defenseless, her newly washed red hair in a halo around her vacant face, her mouth glued into a pleasant smile. On closer examination, I noticed her inner thighs were riddled with scars, as were her waist and breasts.

“Talk to me.” This was my one window of opportunity and I had to make the most of it. “What happened at Erin’s house Saturday night?”
Allie sighed feebly. “It was a big mistake that’s going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

“This you, Lily Graves?”
“Yup. I’m in my Halloween costume today.” Dark-wash skinny jeans, bright-blue mock turtleneck, and a kicky black-and-white herringbone jacket—all from J.Crew.
“What are you supposed to be?”
“The scariest thing I can think of,” I said. “Normal.”

“I did it because...because I wanted to get to know you, and I was too stupid to think of any other way.”

Mum laughed. “You wish it was more complicated than it is because you love secrets.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. You look for them everywher

Mum laughed. “You wish it was more complicated than it is because you love secrets.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. You look for them everywhere.”

I’m going to persuade [the suspect] to meet me at the top of the cliffs. The shock of seeing me will scare [them] into telling me what [they] did. [They] confess, I go back to the police with proper evidence, justice is done.”

“That’s the plan?”

“Yep. Shakespeare had it first, but I think my version is better than his.”

I didn’t realize how stupid I’d been until it was far too late.

Freya, who was blonde, like me. Who had the same shape of face as me, the same pointed chin. The same slanting blue eyes. The same mouth. The same. Top to toe. The dead girl and I could have been twins.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“As far as I know.”
“Not suicide or something.”

It really bothered me that no one could tell me what had happened. If I hadn’t looked like her, maybe I wouldn’t have cared so much. But the reactions I’d had from just about everyone— that mixture of guilt and fear— made me think that there was more to the story than the tragic-accident line Mum had taken

"I also have the feeling I’ve come in halfway through the story and I’m never going to catch up. And I want to know more about Freya.”

I might have wondered what his problem was if he hadn’t been giving me the look I was starting to expect: shock mixed with suspicion. And what looked like—but surely couldn’t have been— fear...

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that if she was murdered, the person who did it might want you to stop dragging it all up again?” He looked back at me, his face grave. “Hasn’t it occurred to you they might be willing to kill again?”

“If you hear everything, do you know who killed her?”
His jaw tightened. “It was an accident. She fell.”
“How do you know?”

“You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about this and I can under stand why. It would be much more exciting if she’d been killed. But there was an inquest. The coroner was quite clear. It was an accident. Death by misadventure. And I told you to stay out of it, didn’t I?”

My smart mouth was going to get me killed, I thought. Really, genuinely dead. I should be begging her to let go, pleading with her, groveling so she could see I was completely in her power, but something in me wouldn’t give in. Pride, probably. Which was stupid.

I took a tiny breath, which was all I could manage. The old familiar jolt of fear kicked my heart into a canter. Oh, here we are. Danger again. I felt trapped and I was more worried about his intentions than I had been before he’d lied to me.

Then there was the little matter that going for a walk with him was the equivalent of painting a target between my shoulder blades and handing [her] a bow and arrow. So of course I nodded and let him put his arm around me.

As I started to turn away I half saw a figure in the back room, standing against the wall, watching me, and my heart took off at a gallop. There was that feeling again— pure fear, ballooning out of nowhere. I refused to acknowledge it.

The rest were girls, clones of the one I’d encountered on Fore Street that morning, wearing tight clothes in ice-cream colors to show off their expensive-looking tans and impeccable figures.

I didn’t imagine she did much swimming. Too risky for her hair, for one thing.

Her jaw dropped as I rattled back down the stairs. “How did you have time to do your hair?”
“I didn’t really do anything to it.”
“You have magic hair.” She nodded wisely. “Many long for it. Few are gifted with it.”
“Oh, come off it.” I looked in the hall mirror. “It’s just hanging there.”

I had lasted through four chapters of the witless romantic novel I’d found on a shelf before I gave up. Just because the hero was a ruggedly handsome cowboy I didn’t see why it gave him the right to be so rude all the time.

“You don’t know him. He’s not like that.”
“Really? Maybe you’re too close to see what he’s doing.” I took a step nearer her. “Let me tell you what I think. You spend your time with your friends talking about him and why he hasn’t called you today, or what his last text meant, or why he tweeted that thing about Rihanna’s latest video. If he mentions he likes you in pink, you go shopping and buy every shade from bubblegum through to fuchsia."

He hadn’t come to see me. I stared at it for a long time, feeling miserable and pathetic in equal measure. What did it matter? So what if he’d decided he had better things to do than visit me? I had rationalized it to my own satisfaction: the near- miss kiss on the beach. He hadn’t meant anything serious by it and now he was scared I’d think he wanted to revisit the moment. Which I didn’t, obviously. I hadn’t even thought about it since. Not more than sixty times a minute, anyway.

“The Perfect Killer is based in Chelsea and is a student,” I said loudly.
“You...didn’t know that,” I realized with a touch of despair. I had

“The Perfect Killer is based in Chelsea and is a student,” I said loudly.
“You...didn’t know that,” I realized with a touch of despair. I had said too much.
I only wanted to prove my cleverness to him, seemingly using information that was public property. But instead I had given him new clues that could lead to me.
Shit.

When I was nine, we began to manage it together, and when I was twelve she let me have it all for my own. I only killed four between the ages of nine and twelve, but when I took absolute possession of the mailbox I set a quicker pace—about ten a year.

I wondered if the maids would be nervous too if they knew they were cleaning the house of murderers.

She had on this draped, toga-like dress patterned with green bamboo; it didn’t suit her figure, and it bothered me, but she was one of my favorite teachers despite her odd dressing habits. I’d had her a few years ago for an English class. She taught English when she wasn’t teaching philosophy, and I liked her and how she spoke. Her short black hair was no-nonsense, no-frills. She didn’t talk too fast. She took her time with things, and sometimes I even believed that she might understand me and why I killed. But I would never tell her, of course. She was legally obligated, as a teacher, to tell the police.

...he looked almost upset, but the turmoil was mixed disturbingly with fury.

His eyes tell me that he is thinking intently about something else, and also that he is sad about something or other.

“Yes, but I didn’t do it, I swear I didn’t, everyone is going to think that, but I swear I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t...,” I wailed insistently, and leaned more heavily against the window, quivering timidly. I even managed to make myself cry some more, tears leaking out of my eyes slowly.

I thought about us in our gray-walled, elegant hallway, the two slender blondes on the edge of an expensive rug, pale-skinned and frail-looking, pausing beneath famous photographs, drinking orange juice from designer glasses.

They would see dark eyes under dark eyelashes, prominent collarbones, and a smattering of freckles dashed across a thin nose like Audrey Hepburn’s, the only truly beautiful feature of a small pale face—would they see a seventeen-year-old murderer?

Strangely few people knew about it, considering the fact that I was so famous. Not even the police knew about it. Or at least I assumed so, since they hadn’t taken control of or searched it yet.

Letters nearly filled the mailbox, at least thirty of them.

You know why we kill. We kill because there is no justice. And without us, the world is lost—”

Dear Killer,
I had had too much to drink, maybe I shouldn’t have been driving, but I didn’t mean anything bad. I was just going home. But there was this red light and I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I drove through it—and there was this other car that swerved to avoid me, and it crashed and someone died.
I just kept driving.

Kill her. Her name is Lily Kensington, and she lives at 28 Lark Place, in Chelsea. She gets home every night at nine.

It makes me angry. She makes me angry. But I love her. No one can have her but me, or I really am going to kill myself.
Please. Please kill her. If I can’t have her, no one can.

He was young. Younger than I had expected. Much younger, in fact. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five or thirty. I remembered that my mom had said he was only unofficially in charge of the investigation.

...he had a bit of a studious feel to him, as if he were a professor or some other scholar.
He was attractive. Surprisingly so.

“I was hoping you’d come. We need a new eye here. It’s the same deal as before—an untraceable murder. It’s frustrating.”

“The couch pillows are still in place,” he said angrily. “No DNA, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no broken windows or picked locks, nothing. Nothing but the body.”

Alex let the tape fall, and shoulder to shoulder, we walked inside. Legitimate police officers passed by me, looking very official, making me feel like a child. Once we got into the front hallway, where Lily Kensington had put her hand on my shoulder, he gestured to the room to our left.

Black carpet so the bloodstains wouldn’t help the police solve the murder.

I walked into the Chelsea Police Station bearing pastries and a smile.

“You’re a kid. Why are you following me to work? You want something, I can tell, but I don’t know what that is.”
“Ah...well...” I laughed nervously. “I want to know about the Perfect Killer.”

When we got to the crime scene, there was crime-scene tape everywhere and a near army of reporters.
I did my best to keep them from seeing my face, given the fact that they were possible witnesses. Of course, I was subtle about it.

I looked around, biting my lip. I needed to get in. Usually by this point in the conversation I was already inside.
“Actually, I have to talk to you about something,” I murmured.
“Yeah, well, whatever you want to talk to me about, we can talk right here,” she said, leaning against the doorway imposingly, making it clear that she was taller and stronger than me. Her expression was distinctly unfriendly.
“It’s...well...I don’t want to,” I said childishly, petulantly.

“Fair enough. We’re friends, then?”
She smiled a soft smile, ever so slightly.
“Yeah. Friends.”
My stomach churned a bit.

“Stop playing games,” I hissed.
Yet again, everyone was listening. They had stopped what they were doing and they were all listening to us, wondering if we would deteriorate into physical violence again.

“How did you discover the body?”
“I just...went to the bathroom, and he was there, on the floor.” I shuddered.

And here, in the hallway, despite the darkness of the situation, emotions began to float up in my chest again, accentuated and amplified by the physical closeness between Alex and me.

Jonas looked directly at Beret now, and she saw the freakish scars on his face and thought what a good woman her aunt had been to pick up such an ugly child, a child other society women might find offensive, and take him into her home. [She] had been the soul of compassion.

I told him Lillie should be cut off until she saw the error of her ways and apologized, and that’s exactly what he did.

Beret found herself hating Lillie and thinking her sister deserved what she’d gotten

You would think after working with so many poor women who’d been abused by their husbands or been forced to sacrifice their honor to their employers that I would have known the man was always at fault. But I’m afraid I reacted like a typical scorned woman. I blamed the other woman—my sister.

You see, adults mess things up even when they’re trying to fix them. No. Check that. They mess things up especially when they’re trying to fix them. I mean, think about how they tried to save us from our dad, how they tried to help my mom. Failure all the way around.

Everywhere he’s touching and everywhere he’s touched is lighting up. I feel like I’ve swallowed the sun.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not proud of it. Even though you didn’t have that damn necklace on, as far as I knew, you

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not proud of it. Even though you didn’t have that damn necklace on, as far as I knew, you were still with Del. And I’m not big on making out with another guy’s girlfriend."

“She thinks I did it?” My voice was small, hoarse. “She thinks I did something to Cassie?”

We drove past them...in our Bentley.
Quickly, I learned that they were rich. Sickeningly rich. It was funny how I didn’t remember squat, but I knew what money looked like.

“Cassie Winchester is your best friend. She disappeared with you.”

“You were a terror to everyone who knew you."

“Just a couple weeks ago, you called her”—she lowered her voice—“a fat bitch whose thighs were capable of setting the world on fire."

Drawing in a shallow breath, I unfolded the slip of paper.

There was blood on the rocks. Her blood. Your blood.

“There’s a huge list of people who were angry with her, but to kill her? I don’t think so.”
He cursed under his breath as he faced me. “There are at least a hundred kids at school who probably fantasized about pushing her in front of a bus a time or two.”

"Right now, if it turns out that she was murdered, you’re their number one suspect.”

“You’re not an idiot, Sam.”
Pressing my lips together, I shook my head. Maybe I wasn’t stupid, but I’d been incredibly naive.

“Jeez, this is like talking to a toddler.”

“The big deal is that you were most likely the last person who saw Cassie—you were probably with her when...when whatever happened to her occurred.”
“I know! And that’s why I need to talk to the police.”
“No. That’s why you can’t talk to the police!”

“Look, Pham or Long Duck, whatever your name is, turn around."

“Is that my boyfriend?” I whispered, hopeful and scared all at once.
He was happy to see me, but … but then his eyes hardened into chips of ice.
“Boyfriend? Yeah,” he said slowly, voice deep and smooth. “Not even if you paid my tuition to Penn State next year.”

“I don’t like Del,” he admitted, staring straight into my eyes. “He’s a dick, and you’ve always deserved better than him, but I’m not that kind of guy. At least, I’m trying to not be with you.”

I needed to figure out how I felt about Del if there was any hope for us because stringing him along wasn’t fair. If I was no longer the girl who’d fallen in love with him, it wasn’t right to keep up this...this charade.

"Miss Holmes. Miss Stoker. There are many young men your age who are called into the service of their country. Who risk life and limb for thei

"Miss Holmes. Miss Stoker. There are many young men your age who are called into the service of their country. Who risk life and limb for their queen, their countrymen, and the Empire. Tonight, I ask, on behalf of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales: will you do what no other young women are called to do, and place your lives and honor at the feet of your country?”

"Yes, I am willing,”
Miss Adler was offering me a way to prove that, despite my gender, I was a Holmes in more than mere name and the size of my nose.

I disliked the new carriages, propelled by a steam engine and with no visible driver or engineer. They ran on some sort of magnetic tracking system. Ever since the Moseley-Haft Steam-Promotion Act had been passed by Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and his Parliament, everyone in London had been keen on them and anything else that could be mechanized and automated.

I pulled the device from my pocket. It looked like a small, dark mirror, but its window or face was black and shiny and reflected a bit of light and no clear image. About as big as my hand, it was slender and elegant, made of glass and encased in silver metal. I turned it over and noticed the faint image of an apple with a bite out of it.

According to The Venators, the vampire hunters of her family were endowed with superior physical strength and unnatural speed. I wondered if it was true. She certainly didn’t appear dangerous.

That was when I realized that, somewhere along the way, she’d ceased being Miss Stoker and had become Evaline.
Not quite a friend, but no longer a stranger.

"...he’d thought there was something about her—a cheekiness, a liveliness that reminded him of the streets."

“No. I’ve chosen to be myself. To follow my own heart for a change. I don’t think I ever have.”

The steam barons ran their companies and, by extension, certain towns and neighborhoods with a combination of bribes and threats.
“Can you imagine what would happen if Parliament challenged them, and the Steam Council stopped supplying coal and gas?”
“There would be riots in the streets. If it went on long enough, the government would fall.”
"Steam may be the engine that drives the Empire, but the steam barons are the knife at its throat.”

...a beauty. Skin like the moon and hair like a starless night

Tobias would have been something beautifully crafted and elegant with lots of white sails—the meeting place of tradition and innovation.
Nick, on the other hand, would have been a sleek pirate ship. He already had the gold rings in his ears.

The top buttons of his shirt were undone, his collar gone. She could see the smooth pale arc of his throat. Beneath the scent of brandy, she could smell smoke, as if he’d been standing next to a steam engine.
He crouched next to her. He was so near, she could feel the heat of his body, and it was all she could do not to lean even closer.

...a dead body. Not just dead, but violently dead. The straggling hair was matted with blood...The dead woman’s face was obscured by the tumble of her hair, but Evelina could see the throat had been slashed from ear to ear.

Daddy said that you can’t change the way things are by saving one person. He said the best we can do in life is surround ourselves with people who

Daddy said that you can’t change the way things are by saving one person. He said the best we can do in life is surround ourselves with people who make us happy, because the rest of the world is too big to find meaning in.

But if everyone just forgets about terrible things they can’t understand—like what happened to Isabella and Matt Weaver—who will be left to remember?

I’ve been expelled from my beloved Manhattan school, questioned as a person of interest in a murder investigation, and nearly shot to death in the woods, but I’m convinced Monday morning is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

The dead leave lots of things behind. Like messes you can’t see. Or sometimes, actual things.
Like the photograph I found in an old library book Isabella checked out before her death—the one of Matthew Weaver, a student who disappeared over thirty years ago, standing with the Wheatley Crew team.
The one with THEY KILLED HIM written on the back.

He also asked me if I found myself bored in the weeks after Dr. Harrow’s arrest. I’m not an idiot: He thinks I want there to be more to the mystery. Sort of like I’m having mystery withdrawals or whatever.
But part of me thinks he has a point.
Either way, I have too many questions and no ways to get answers. When I told Dr. R I felt this way, he agreed.
“Sometimes it’s best for our sanity to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said.

Matt Weaver drew himself as Adam.
Adam/Matt is frowning, a tear pooling at the corner of his eye. In his hand is a half-eaten apple. A serpent with hollow black eyes is coiled around his arm.
Matt Weaver saw himself as Adam. So what did he do to get kicked out of Paradise?

...the picture makes me want to throw up.
Eight guys stand shoulder to shoulder, their wrists bound in front of them with rope. I don’t recognize anyone in it. Probably because they all have potato sacks over their heads.

“Where can I find a VCR?” I say from the doorway.
Remy blinks at me. “Um, the nineties?”
“No, really.”

“Hi. Um. It’s me. Anne. Look, I know we haven’t talked in a while. But I really need to talk. To you. It’s important.”
Then I hang up.

I think of all the Wheatley School students who have wound up dead (or presumably, at least): Isabella Fernandez. Matthew Weaver. Cynthia Durham. I’ve never believed in curses or any of that garbage. But I will admit it: I’m starting to worry that if I stay at the Wheatley School, I might be next.

“Oh, no,” April says over the sound of Murali, Phil, and Cole’s laughter. “There are tons of bananas in the fridge. You’re not doing the Sprite-banana challenge, are you?”

Everyone is in self-imposed isolation today: We all got drunker than we meant to last night, and there’s lots of shit due in class tomorrow.

Brent sits up, his back against his pillow, and I sit on his lap facing him. He kisses my neck, and when I kiss his earlobe his whole body contracts into mine.
“GODDAMNED SPIKED SHELL!” Murali screams from the living room.

Occam’s razor: It’s a theory of logic stating that the simplest explanation to a problem is usually the best one. It’s my father’s worst nightmare in the courtroom.
What I know: Someone is trying to stop me from digging into the crew team’s past.
What I wish I didn’t know: [Redacted] and the other guys were in the tunnels earlier tonight.
The simplest explanation is that they were the ones who left me the photo.

Absent, thankfully, is Jill Wexler, who is tall and thin and blond and in love with Brent. Which isn’t grounds to hate her. I’m not like that.
But the last time Jill and I were at the same party, she almost got me expelled-and-or-jailed afterward. So I’m happy no one invited her tonight.

“Don’t ever say you hate yourself for that. You know what I hate? The idea that we’re supposed to hate ourselves for having sex.”

I’m not going to let myself cry. I worked too damn hard on my eye makeup.

“You found all that out on your own?”
I nod.
“I can’t...I mean, this is just crazy.” A low whistle escapes him. “Don’t you have other things to do? I don’t know, maybe homework or something?”
“Obviously it’s been a while since you’ve done homework if you think that’s more interesting than a cold case.”

“I’ll see you in a few, I guess.”
I’m completely stunned that he I-guessed me. I mean, I guess isn’t that bad in itself, but it’s a sign that next time I’m going to get a Do what you want. Or even worse: Whatever.

“No, there’s more. I don’t want to pretend I don’t give a shit what you think of me. Because I do. I don’t want to be the waste product you think I am. It’s all I think about lately.” His eyes are pleading, begging me to understand what he’s really saying. “You’re all I think about, and I can’t stop.”

I live with my mother in a house bigger than the entire shelter. I have a master’s degree from Yale. I work as a volunteer, and I don’t even need to do that. Do I appreciate it? No. On good days, it chafes, like a dress with a scratchy tag. On bad ones, I feel like a bobcat caught in a trap, ready to gnaw my foot off to escape. Then I look at someone like Cathy, and a wave of guilt and shame stifles the restlessness.

"Prove us innocent of this crime and the other evidence will be called into question. A house of cards. Pull out one and the rest topples.” She leaned forward. “Can you do that for me, Olivia?"

“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible---from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”

"At St. Bernadette’s, it didn’t matter where your money came from, since everyone’s parents were attorneys or plastic surgeons or famous rock stars; you had to prove yourself to earn your status. The fact that Remy and Company won’t even wait for me to prove myself makes me distrust them."

"I should be worried about myself and my future, but I can’t stop thinking about Isabella, and how if she were the daughter of a politician or the attorney general, the police would probably have found her killer by now.
It’s not fair. And it’s not fair for me to sit around and do nothing about it. Not when I got off with a slap on the wrist for almost burning my school down just because of my father. I’ll be such a hypocrite if I don’t at least try to get justice for Isabella."

"I wait until I’m out of the administration building to give in to a few tears. Obviously I can’t go to class now, and I don’t want to go back to my room. I could go to the police, but what would I say? Hey, I have absolutely no evidence, and they didn’t take anything, but someone was in my room.
I wipe my eyes with my gloves and take a deep breath. Keep it together, Anne. You can’t go home. You need to get through this."

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that one time at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I could trust him. Mostly because he had rope, duct tape, and lots of condoms in his backseat. Still, I’ll never know what could have come of it. How far I could have risen.

The poor guy needed to be done with whatever it was he’d left unfinished. I couldn’t have him running around naked forever. It just seemed wrong.
“I’m having a hard time not looking at your penis.”

“I tend to forget how beautifully your plans work when each and every one goes awry, including the one that left you stranded on a deserted bridge with a man who had every intention of burning you alive.”

My heart broke all too often. Even when people passed through me who’d gotten past their hardships, their heart-wrenching pain, and had lived long, full lives, seeing that part of them still cut me to pieces. So, maybe all this time I’d been hanging with Mr. Wong, I was really putting off the inevitable, the truth, not for his benefit, but for my own.

I dialed her number. Got her voice mail. Waited for the beep. Then I did my best creepy kidnapper voice. “This is a ransom demand,” I said, my voice raspy. Kidnapper-y. “Deliver one hundred boxes of Cheez-Its to the unmarked—ignore the license plate—cherry red Jeep Wrangler sitting in your parking lot by noon today, or you will suffer the consequences.” I paused to cough. Raspy was hard on the esophagus. “They will be dire.”

“I’m not stupid,” I said, growing tired of his questioning everything I did. “I do use common sense.”
“You have to have common sense to use it.”
I stiffened. He did not just say that. “You did not just say that.”
“When it comes to humans, Dutch, you are blind. You do things for them that no other person alive would do.

“When are you going to answer him?” Cookie asked, drawing my attention.
“When he deserves an answer,” I volleyed.

A hopeless sigh slid through Cookie’s lips as she finally looked at him. “You’ve set the bar too high now. No one will live up to—” She gestured to all of him. “—all of that. You’ve ruined my daughter.”

“Holy house of hogs getting blasted by the blue birdie brigade...”

“Holy house of hogs getting blasted by the blue birdie brigade...”

“Looks like you’re not the only new kid in town. Did you get a load of the new chick?” Garrett let out a sharp whistle. “Hawt! Girl’s got a pair that would drive a priest crazy.”

“Ya know, like sucking face and having gropefests?”
He scowled. “Why is it so hard for you to speak English?”
“That is English. Not my fault you can’t understand it.”

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Lukas, but the world’s changed since your time. People suck. They steal, they lie, and they kill each other in horrible ways for no good reason. Some are just bad. Badder than the demons.”
He frowned. “I can’t believe that.”

“I want to stay because of you. I’ve never come across someone like you. Your strength and determination is astounding. It’s odd because you’re so incredibly infuriating---My entire life, all I wanted was to find something different. Special. I never would have guessed I’d have to sleep for so long to find it.”

The girl’s too-tight black sweater dipped to a dangerous V, showing off cleavage that would make a porn star proud, and ended just above her belly button. The skirt—if you could even call it that—hung at least seven inches above regulation and bordered on sheer.

“What kind of eggs?” I asked.
“You tell me.” The boy’s words caught me off guard.
I stared at him through the wisps of hair still covering my face. “You want me to guess how you want your eggs cooked?”
He smiled. “Why not?”
And just like that, the gauntlet was thrown.
“Not scrambled,” I said, thinking out loud. Scrambled eggs were too average, too common, and this was a guy who liked to be a little bit different. Not too different, though, which ruled out poached—at least in a place like this. Sunny-side up would have been too messy for him; over hard wouldn’t be messy enough.
“Over easy.” I was as sure of the conclusion as I was of the color of his eyes. He smiled and closed his menu.

No matter how long they did this job, or how much training they had, these agents would never have instincts as finely honed as ours.

“Have you ever seen The Bad Seed?” he inquired politely. “The movie.”
A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “No.”
Michael grinned. “I have.”
Dean stood up. “I’m done here.”

When Agent Starmans glanced in the room, all he saw was [him] and me.
Kissing.
The kiss in the pool was nothing compared to this. Then, our lips had barely brushed. Now, my lips were opening. Our mouths were crushed together. His hand traveled from my neck down to my lower back. My lips tingled, and I leaned into the kiss, shifting my body until I could feel the heat from his in my arms, my chest, my stomach.

Sloane on coffee was a bit like an auctioneer on speed. The numbers poured out of her mouth rapid-fire, a statistic for every occasion. For eight hours.
“Sixteen percent of American men have blue eyes,” she informed me blithely. “But over forty percent of male TV doctors do.”

Sloane slipped an arm around my waist. “There are fourteen varieties of hugs,” she said. “This is one of them.”

Agent Locke added, meeting Lia’s eyes, “she’s a very good liar.”
Lia didn’t seem to take offense at the agent’s words. “I’m also bilingual,” she said. “And very, very flexible.”
The second very was aimed directly at Michael.