Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Adam asked as we went back upstairs. “Sometime,” I told him. “When we're telling ghost stories around a campfire, and I want to scare you.

My foster mother always laughed and said it was his reputation for knowing everything that allowed for him to appear infallible: all he had to do was walk through the room and see who looked guiltiest when they saw him. Maybe she was right, but I tried looking innocent the next time, and it didn't work.

"Can't sleep with a dead man in my closet." "You killed someone?" asked Ben with interest.

I was talking cannibalism, not romance.

Over the years, she'd learned not to question him to closely—mostly because he wouldn't answer her.

What do you mean?” Leslie’s voice was cool, as if she questioned witches who were flat on their backs being threatened by werewolves every day.

Love thy enemies, it says in the scriptures. My foster mother always added, "At the very least, you will be polite to them.