Quotes from Harlan Coben

He led her past a beaded curtain and into a private back room. The room was gold and green and looked like a Midwest cheerleader uniform had inspired the décor. "You

Win's phone rang. He picked it up and said, "Articulate. Okay, put it through." Two seconds later he handed the phone to Myron. "For me?" Myron asked. Win gave him flat eyes. "No," he said. "I'm handing you the phone because it's too heavy for me." Everyone

You move forward in life. You may give the old you a nod every once in a while, but the old you is gone and not coming back. That was often a good thing.

Shauna ordered one too. "So you broke up with what's-her-name," she said. "Brandy." "Right. Nice name, by the way. She have a sister named Whiskey?

Norm Zuckerman spoke in a first-grade-teacher singsong. "You can answer orally, Myron, by uttering the syllable 'no.' Or if that's too taxing on your limited vocabulary, you can merely shake your head from side to side like this." Norm demonstrated.

What do you want?" I asked. No one answered. The van pulled to a quick stop around the corner. The big Asian guy slid in, and the van started up again. He bent down, gazing at me with what looked like mild curiosity. "Why were you at the park?" he asked me. His voice threw me. I had expected something growling or menacing, but his tone was gentle, high-pitched, and creepily childlike.

I love you," she said. "I love you too." And with that they agreed to spy on their oldest child.

Here is the truth about tragedy: It's good for the soul.

Hoping to discourage him, Kat gave the guy flat eyes and a disdainful frown. Sunglasses was not deterred. He bebopped over, moving to some sound track that was playing only in his own head. "Hey

He sat alone at the kitchen table of his empty house. This was not the life he'd planned. Man plans, God laughs. He shook his head. Truer words. Enough

Riverside Drive was relatively quiet. Myron arrived at his Kinney lot on 46th Street and tossed Mario the keys. Mario did not park the Ford Taurus up front with the Rolls, the Mercedes, Win's Jag; in fact, he usually managed to find a cozy spot underneath what must have been a nesting ground for loose-stooled pigeons. Car discrimination. It was an ugly thing, but where were the support groups? The

The Asian man slowly kneeled closer to me. I kept my eyes steady on his. Or, at least, I tried to. It wasn't like staring into the eyes of a fellow human being or even an animal. These were the eyes of something inanimate. If you could look into the eyes of a file cabinet, this would be what it felt like. But

So this is your secret locale?" He shrugged. "Why here?" Then, thinking about it: "Wait, I get it. Because it's so off the radar, right?" "That," Berleand agreed, "and I like looking at naked women." He

Why do these guys keep thinking they have a chance with me?" "Because you look cute and perky." "I'm not perky." "No, but you look perky." "Seriously, do I look like that much of a loser?" "You look damaged," Stacy said. "I hate to say it. But the damage . . . it comes off you like some kind of pheromone that douche bags can't resist." They

Four-year-olds don't belong in dark suits. Four-year-olds belong in goalie uniforms next to their dads.       MARIO

You chose motherhood. That shouldn't punish you. But it shouldn't make you special either. You lost those years in terms of work. You got out of line. You don't just get to cut back in. Equal playing field. So if a guy took off work to raise his kids, he'd be treated the same. You see?" Tia

I kept expecting him to release the grip or let up a bit. He didn't. I started making small whimpering sounds. But he held on, his expression one of boredom. The

Parties Are for Weekends, Not Politics.

Kat sighed, rose, and nodded to the bartender, a guy named Pete who looked like a character actor who always played the Irish bartender—which is what, in fact, he was. Pete nodded back, indicating that he'd put the drinks on Kat's tab. "Who

A dozen thoughts hit me all at once. The biggest was a one-word command: RUN! I had watched the horror movies, the ones where the mentally malnourished airhead goes into the house alone, sneaking around like, well, like me, and then ends up with an ax between the eyes. From the safety of my seat in the cineplex, I had scoffed at their idiocy and now, here I was, in Bat Lady's lair, and someone else was here, in the basement. Why

Newark, New Jersey. The bad part. Almost a redundancy. Decay was the first word that came to mind. The buildings were more than falling apart - they actually seemed to be breaking down, melting from some sort of acid onslaught. Here urban renewal was about as familiar a concept as time travel. The surroundings looked more like a war newsreel - Frankfurt after the Allies' bombing - than a habitable dwelling.

You can't talk to our daughter without our permission," she says. "I'll have your badge.

I sat up. Terese Collins. Imagery flooded in—her Class-B-felony bikini, that private island, the sun-kissed beach, her gaze that could melt teeth, her Class-B-felony bikini. It's worth mentioning the bikini twice.

He nodded. A police or French siren went off. The French have a different siren than we do—more insistent, horrible, like the love child of a cheap car alarm and the wrong-answer buzzer on Family Feud. We let it shatter our silence and waited for it to fade away. I