I remember one time I heard this English professor asking the class what the world's scariest noise is. Is it a man crying out in pain? A woman's scream of terror? A gunshot? A baby crying? And the professor shakes his head and says, 'No, the scariest noise is, you're all alone in your dark house, you know you're all alone, you know that there is no chance anyone else is home or within miles—and then, suddenly, from upstairs, you hear the toilet flush.

That's what a good crime novelist - any good novelist - should do with you: play with your perceptions while showing you everything in plain sight.

Hope is cruel. Hope reminds me of what almost was. Hope makes the physical ache return.

You can't have an up without a down, a right without a left, a back without a front - or a happy without a sad.

I'm not very happy idle. There's always this voice in my head that says, 'I should be writing.

That’s the problem with falling in love. It makes you start talking like a bad country song

If I had, say, a tall, amateur male lead living on the campus of a rural college (Six Years), the next book might feature a short, cop who lives in the heart of Manhattan (Missing You).