S. J. Watson
- Second Life
I realize with sudden clarity that we're all wearing masks, all of us, all the time. We're presenting a face, a version of ourselves, to the world, to each other. We show a different face depending on who we're with and what they expect of us. Even when we're alone, it's just another mask, the version of ourselves we'd prefer to be.
Stephen King
- Revival
Religion is the theological equivalent of a quick buck insurance scam; where you pay in your premium year after year and then when you need the benefits you paid for so religiously, you discover the company who took your money does not, in fact, exist.
Kara Thomas
- The Darkest Corners
At dinner last night, Rick talked about moving the AC unit from the family room into the guest room, so I wouldn't have to sleep with the window open every night. I insisted that he not go through the trouble and said I was fine, even though it feels like I'm cocooned in the folds of Satan's ball sack every night.
Karin Slaughter
- The Kept Woman
He's morbidly obese. He's unusually bloated. There are needle marks on his abdomen and thighs that indicate he's an insulin-dependent diabetic. His diet was fast food and Skittles. Collier looked skeptical. "So Harding conveniently slipped into a diabetic coma during the middle of a death match?"
Karin Slaughter
- Undone
She spent the next hour dividing her time between the phone and the computer; scaring the ever-loving shit out of herself while waiting on hold by investiGoogling type 2 diabetes on her laptop. She found one nut who claimed diabetes was a governmental plot to extract billions of dollars from the unsuspecting public in order to wage the war for oil.
Karin Slaughter
- Undone
She longed for those stolen moments in parked cars and in hallways and movie theaters when Sara thought she would stop breathing if she didn't feel his mouth pressed to hers. She wanted that surprise of seeing him at work, that thump in her heart when she caught sight of him walking down the street.
Karin Slaughter
- Undone
"She's just come undone," her mother had whispered on the phone to her aunt Bella. It was an old colloquialism, the sort of thing you didn't think people still said. The phrase fit Sara so completely that she had found herself surrendering to it, imagining her arms and her legs detaching from her body. What did it matter? What did she need arms or legs or hands or feet for if she couldn't run to him, hold him, touch him?
