I was a university professor, I could talk on and on and on. Give me a podium and you have to drag me off with a hook.

Though a good cop, Luc Claudel has the patience of a firecracker, the sensitivity of Vlad the Impaler, and a persistent skepticism as to the value of forensic anthropology. Snappy dresser, though.

I've been accused of being a minimalist writer. I don't like a lot of verbiage in there.

Indecision is the key to flexibility.

Whitney smacked Coop's snout while simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine. "Tory!" Whitney squealed. "He's going to attack!" "Maybe." I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. "Try to protect your throat.

Tory a father isn’t supposed to fear his fourteen-year-old daughter. That being sad, you terrify me.

You all right now?" "I'm exceptional. Wonderful. Thanks for the concern. You complete me.