Quotes from Tanya Anne Crosby

Once again, my new novel The Girl Who Stayed is something different for me, although with the same voice my readers have come to anticipate. I believe that people are pretty much the same, regardless of era, physical

What are you working on?" Chris had asked. "Nothing," Zoe replied, her fingers freezing on the keyboard.

Except that the digital numbers shifted as she stared and the clock's panels turned to 3:53.

If the house were on fire, what would you save? The cat? The computer? The only existing picture of your dead sister? Rather, the question should be: What would you be willing to lose?

You love me, Zoe?" he'd asked on a number of occasions. "Don't you?

Och, mo cridhe... nighean mo ruin,

course, he didn't actually want her to go, nor did she care to join him. The tension in her shoulders eased a little, realizing he wanted her to say no. Pretending to contemplate his invitation, Zoe relaxed

The surest way to open yourself to hurt is to love, and yet you love anyway,

Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you… the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it." ?— ?Roald Dahl

didn't look at her again—probably to avoid the permanent look of resentment now etched upon her face, a look Zoe tried impossibly to hide. That morning, however, as he tossed the briefcase into the backseat of his car, what it might contain, or how much he'd spent for the damned thing, was the furthest thing from Zoe's mind. The instant he was out of the driveway,

It was true that he was weary after having spent the last seven days traveling from Kent to the shadowed edges of the Exmoor Forest. It was also true that the wilds of Somerset and Cornwall were said to breed wraiths and other netherworld creatures, and Dunster was right in the middle of dark and mysterious lands. But being a man of logic, Sir Gart Forbes wasn't one to believe in ghosts or phantoms or fairies. Still, he wasn't quite sure what he had seen.

She peered up at the red spatter on the ceiling—as though she needed reminders—and lifted a hand to her forehead, pressing a finger against the scar. "You can't even please yourself; how can you please a lover, Zoe?" Chris was right about that. But absolving him wasn't an

A real cook would take pride in the patina, he wouldn't fuss and fume over the spotless perfection of a pot. He would be more interested in the creation of a work of culinary art, the success of which would be reflected on the faces of his friends rather than the shininess of a cooking tool.

m'a interrogée à maintes reprises sur ces brefs passages, étant donné qu'ils proviennent d'une voix narrative tout à fait différente de celle du reste des livres dans cette série sur les sœurs Aldridge. Les lecteurs curieux veulent avant tout en savoir plus sur les derniers instants de la vie de Flo Aldridge. Qui était-elle ? Qu'est-ce qui l'a

Starting over didn't have to be scary or painful if you looked at it for what it was—a clean slate, a chance to create something entirely different, a chance to discard all things that weren't in sync with personal philosophies. Hope.

It's true what they say … it's never the things you did that haunt you most … it's the things you didn't do, but wish you had.

Zoe wasn't his partner, she was his trophy, and the thing about trophies is that they got old fast and, soon enough, you needed another conquest and another trophy on the shelf.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely

what it was—a clean slate, a chance to create something entirely different, a chance to discard all things that weren't in sync with personal philosophies. Hope. That's what it gave her most. By 3:30 p.m., the trash bins were all overflowing and her ten-year-old Volvo was stuffed to the ceiling. Zoe wandered the halls, wondering

thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

Zoe dropped the towel back onto the floor, glancing at the bedroom clock: 3:52. Twenty-three minutes

Directly above her head, blood peppered the ceiling, a "castoff" spray that permeated the pimply white paint. It looked a little as though someone had taken a straw filled with red paint and aimed it high. But then again, wasn't that essentially what happened when you opened a vein? Not the creative sort, the ones beneath

you put on a little sumpin' sumpin' and surprise me

He might take her life, but he could never take her will, nor break her pride. She was a daughter of Pecht kings; he was naught but a feckless