Someone is watching me. I can feel it—the eerie sensation of being followed, an invisible gaze locked on my back.
My mom has three freckles, light brown and almost perfectly square, two on her right cheek and one on her nose.
The moment I decided to leave him, the moment I thought, enough, we were thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean, hurtling forward but giving the illusion of stillness and tranquility.
The road curves and twists unexpectedly as it leads higher and deeper into the Catskill Mountains, as if the further you get from civilization, the more uncertain the path.
From the moment I accepted the invitation, I was nervous about returning to Germany.
The crackle of gunshots bounced between the mountainsides, the percussion fading with each return of echo.
I am hungover and steer myself like a car through the crowds at Alexanderplatz station.
I watch the mother’s face mostly, details I hadn’t noticed before: the slope of her eyebrows, the clenching of her teeth, eyes rimmed with red.
My father built the house on Langely Lake for my mother, in the town she grew up in.
Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood. If you’re reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now.
The members of the National Security Council and their advisors all rose as President Bedford Travers entered the White House Situation Room located beneath the Oval Office.
Lyn Portman stood on the front steps of the Tewinga store shading her gaze against the morning sun, and watching with critical eyes the dust cloud that signalled the approach of a traveller.