Life damages us, every one. We can't escape that damage.

He looks like a man who has spent most of his life frowning.

Psyche you out?" I repeat. "I'm your FRIEND. I wouldn't do that." He doesn't say anything. I can tell he doesn't believe me-not quite.

His fingers slide into my hair, and I hold on to his arms to stay steady as we press together like two blades at a stalemate. He is stronger than anyone I know, and warmer than anyone else realizes; he is a secret that I have kept, and will keep for the rest of my life.

I wonder if this is how is is with all evil men, that to someone, they look just like good men, talk like good men, are just as likable as good men.

His eyes search the crowd until they find my face. My heartbeat lives in my throat; lives in my cheeks. "I still don't understand," he says softly, "how she knew that it would work.

I would rather be dead than empty