"I feel like, like pudding," Iggy groaned. "Pudding with nerve endings. Pudding in great pain."

Listen, street punk. You're a guy, and you're a couple inches taller, and maybe forty pounds heavier, and ooh, you're in a gang. But I've survived ten years of Catholic school, and I will cut you off at your knees without a blink. Do you understand?

He gives my hand a tight squeeze, but that desperation, that urgency between us is gone. No insecurities. Max and Fang. Fang and Max. No longer a question. We just are.

When I write I pretend I'm telling a story to someone in the room and I don't want them to get up until I'm finished.

Stop trying to write sentences and start trying to write stories.

Always expect the unexpected. Right around Thanksgiving, when the new Alex Cross will be out. It's called Four Blind Mice and it's a pretty amazing story about several murders inside the military.

Maybe he was a good a good whitecoat—like Jeb. And maybe the moon was made of cream cheese.