I love stories. When I'm writing, what I pretend subconsciously is that we're cavemen, we're sitting around the fire, and I'm telling you stories. If I bore you, you're probably going to pick up a big club and hit me over the head.

I would never write a memoir, because it would be too boring.

I am, after all, a thriller writer. I routinely delve into the darkest chambers of the human heart. I've written about murder, kidnapping, depravity, horror, violence, and disfigurement.

The first sip of beer on a hot day is like that first finger-dip when you open a new jar of peanut butter.

I'm the Jerry Lewis of crime fiction.

No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.

Painful memories didn't just ease back in-they shoved the door open hard, all of them and all at once