The face you give the world tells the world how to treat you.

To refuse has so many more consequences than submitting.

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.)

The worst feeling: when you just have to wait and prepare yourself for the lie.

There's no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. The world will always want a drink.

I think mystery writers and thriller writers - whatever genre you want to call it - are taking on some of the biggest, most interesting kind of socioeconomic issues around in a really interesting, compelling way.

I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.