The sun set at six minutes to four. Kay lay stretched out on the floor, reading the very small print on the back of the newspaper.
In 1945 our parents went away and left us in the care of two men who may have been criminals.
Sigrid Ødegård’s hands rest on the unopened blue folder as she stares out the window of her office.
Betty Dunlop wasn’t scared of death, but then she hadn’t been scared of the Luftwaffe, the Cold War, the threat of a nuclear winter, salmonella, cholesterol, or any of her three varyingly awful husbands.
The journalist was born in 1964, which is to say she’s seventeen years younger than I am.
‘I don’t remember.’ Or rather, she didn’t want to remember, which was not the same thing.
Amber brings the coffees over and sets them down with a flourish, gesturing at the intricately piped pattern of white foam that spirals out geometrically.
Sparrow woke on wet sand somewhere downriver with a terrible stink in his nostrils, the smell of death and decay, rot and ruin all about.
‘Oh, baby,’ I murmur, brushing Luke’s hair away from his forehead as he fights back tears.
Pickles! Keagan tried to keep his mind on his errand, but his thoughts kept wandering.
The stench of horse manure woke Max Einstein with a jolt.
I push my boot against the gas pedal, and the needle on the speedometer surges past one hundred miles an hour.
Brunetti found himself seated towards the rear of a Number One vaporetto, glancing idly through a copy of that morning’s Gazzettino.
There were only four words beneath the tattoo of the Grim Reaper on Aubrey Davenport’s inner left thigh. But they spoke volumes.