The brothers generate sound, but the rest of the landscape is silent—silent and cold, sixteen degrees when they left Dan’s truck at eleven.
She ends the story, always, exactly the same way. “That was one of the great conversations of my life.”
There’s a different me out there who never met you. There’s a different you who left me at the altar and joined a cult.
Nostalgia is like sweet poison, in a way.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
“The thing is, nothing lasts like they say it will. Believe me. Your hamburgers, your chicken breasts, your pork chops – all the animals – they go gray even when you double-wrap.”
“A plate fell on the floor, crushed into a thousand pieces. The little boy startled and the women took him out of the stroller and rocked him in her arms.”
Danny is sitting on our stoop. His frown could draw blood.
Along the Cam, at the Jesus Lock, you take my hand. A sparrowhawk flies above us with its massive wingspan, making a terrible sound, keening, screaming. Your hand is warm. All of this time, it has been warm.
Liars is a book that will have you turning pages faster than a mystery novel.