Quotes from Harlan Coben

Could you move a little closer?" She smiled. "I think not." "I showered." She ignored the remark. "I understand that you occasionally do some investigative work," Susan Lex said. Myron did not reply. "Is that correct?" "Depends on what you mean by investigative work." "I'll take that as a yes," Susan Lex said. Myron gave her a suit-yourself shrug.

He was no longer a child, barely an adolescent, really, moving too hard and too fast into adulthood.

I frowned. "Don't you guys have a steroid needle that needs an ass cheek?" Their

The crickets were incessant and plenteous, their swarming tune as monotonous as a Mariah Carey CD, though not quite as grating.

The receptionist at Horne, Buckman and Pierce, a classic battle-ax who was comfortably past her prime, eyed Loren as if she'd recognized her from a sex offender poster. Full frown in place, the battle-ax told her to sit. Randal

The viral video—four million views and counting—had been recorded on a tourist's iPhone in Central Park. On the screen, Hester's

There were copies on the table. Ten-A-Fly dressed like Snoop Dogg on a bender making gangsta hand signs that made one think not so much of intimidation as an unusual state of palsy.

The lake was hold-your-breath still, but I swore I could still hear Dad's howl of delight as he cannonballed off the dock, his knees pressed tightly against his chest, his smile just south of sane, the upcoming splash a virtual tidal wave in the eyes of his only son.

The sun shone through the green of the trees. The sky was a blue only a deity could paint. Beauty always found refuge in the ugly. Truth be told, beauty couldn't really exist without the ugly. How can there be light if there is no dark? Gerard

Since Kat had to return the Chick Trawler anyway, she and Stacy decided to meet up in the lobby of the Lock-Horne Building. Stacy wore a black turtleneck, sprayed-on blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Her hair cascaded down in ideal just-mussed waves, as if she simply got out of bed, shook her head, and voilà, perfection. If Kat didn't love Stacy, she'd hate her so much. It

Always better to be cautious. Things can always be said later, but things can never be unheard. Shane

I found something in Mercer's room," Walker said in a voice as gray as a tombstone. "I think it belongs to Haley McWaid.

Big Cyndi crossed the room with an agility that belied the bulk. She wrapped me in an embrace that made me feel as if I'd been mummified in wet attic insulation. In a good way.

Silly thought, but there you go. Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.

It was while he was lost in that thought that Granite Man punched him deep in the stomach. The fist followed through to the point where it seemed the knuckles must have reached the fabric of the couch. Myron snapped closed at the waist. He dropped to the floor, struggled to regain a breath, suffocating from within. He lowered his head to his knees, consumed with one thought: air. He needed air. Susan

In the end, we're just their caretakers, Mike. We get them for a little while and then they live their lives. I just want him to stay alive and healthy until we let him go. The rest will be up to him." Mike

So now what? Kick down the door . . . and then what? Find an old lady in a weird white dress and demand she explain her whack-a-doodle rants? Maybe she had gone upstairs. Maybe Bat Lady was now getting ready for her loony day, changing out of her white dress, heading to the shower . . . Ugh.

Esperanza's sexual preference flip-flopped like a politician in a nonelection year. Currently she seemed to be on a man kick, but Myron guessed that was one of the advantages of bisexuality: love everyone. Myron had no problem with it. In high school he had dated almost exclusively bisexual girls—he'd mention sex, the girls would say "bye." Okay, old joke, but the point remained.

Right now, maybe it was best to keep this black and white and stay away from the moral relativism.

Big Cyndi crossed the room with an agility that belied the bulk. She wrapped me in an embrace that made me feel as if I'd been mummified in wet attic insulation. In a good way. "Oh, Mr. Bolitar!" She started sniffling, a sound that brought images of moose mating on the Discovery Channel.

Wendy looked back at Fly. "Wasn't the fan your wife?" "Your point?" Good question. "Absolutely none. Is Phil here?" As

I think I left her first. At least emotionally. She left me because in part I left her.

I spotted the moving van in front of the Ruskins' old house, turned and—first pow—there she was, my Elizabeth, walking with that titanium spine, so poised, even then, even as a seven-year-old girl with Mary Janes and a friendship bracelet and too many freckles. We

She was raw sexuality, maybe ten pounds bigger than she should have been but those pounds were exquisitely distributed.