He'd kept this silence because his own secrets were darker, more hidden, and because he believed that his secrets had created hers.

It's good to be in love.

Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.

So something had begun, and now she could not stop it. Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement. She could leave this place today. She could start a new life somewhere else.

This was her life. Not the life she had once dreamed of, not a life her younger self would ever have imagined or desired, but the life she was living, with all its complexities. This was her life, built with care and attention, and it was good.

Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.

It wasn't right. He knew that, but it was like falling: once you started you couldn't stop until something stopped you.