Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.

There were two now where they had been three. David's death had dismantled the triangle, and an enclosed space was now open. Two points are unreliable; with nothing to anchor them, there is nothing to stop them drifting in opposite directions. If it is string that binds, it will eventually snap and the points will separate; if elastic, they will continue to part, further and further, until the strain reaches its limit and they are pulled back with such speed that they cannot help but collide with devastating force.

But history is a faithless teller whose cruel recourse to hindsight makes fools of its actors.

Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.

There's a market for mysteries for adults. That feeling of opening a book and delving inside and not coming out until you've closed the book.

In retrospect, it seems like everything in my life led to me becoming a writer. I just didn't realise it at the time.

His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.