Quotes from Jeff Lindsay

She took another noisy sip of coffee and raised an eyebrow at me.

Commissioner upholds law, even when it hurts,' Ã¢â'¬Â I said in my best headline-news voice. He looked at me with an anger that was almost physical, and I shrugged. "You can come up with something better if you want," I said. He

I mean, shouldn't there be more? There's not even enough to add up to anything except another wage slave so dumb I even pay my taxes. And

For the first time human life seemed rare and valuable, in spite of the fact that there was so much of it, and for the most part it consistently failed to prove its worth.

Once again, I had the sensation that everyone else was working off a fully rehearsed script, and I was being asked to improvise. "I just meant—nothing," I said, hoping for a clue on what my line was supposed to be.

I kissed the top of her head. It smelled wonderful, a combination of baby shampoo and whatever intoxicating pheromone it is that babies rub into their scalps.

found myself flailing for an answer, reaching for something that was no longer there, and the sense of loss and emptiness amplified my uncertainty and anger and uneasiness, and I realized my breath was hissing in and out between clenched teeth and my hands were clenched on the wheel and covered with a chilly sheen of sweat, and I thought, that's enough.

I looked at her with a little bit of surprise. I had forgotten that she was eighteen, and rumored to be bright. Perhaps whatever drugs they had given her were wearing off, and maybe she was just glad to have somebody to talk to for the first time in quite a while. Whatever the case, she was finally showing a little bit of depth, which at least removed one small layer of torture from durance vile.

He didn't even try. He just stared at me for another long moment. There was nothing to hide under, so I just looked back, and finally he turned back to Deborah. "I won't rat out my own son, Sergeant," he said, in a voice that was almost a hiss. "No matter what you think he's done.

Me?" I said, a little surprised. "What do you mean?" Jackie gestured with the cup. "You obviously work out. I mean," she said with a wicked smile, "I can see you have a pretty good appetite, but you look pretty fit." She actually winked at me. "Just like a real bodyguard should." "Oh, well," I said, still a bit uncomfortable. "I like to run. And, um, some tai chi …?

Well, come on, Debs," I said, and I admit I was a little peevish. "You knew this would happen, and it happened, so why should it bother you?" She

I found myself flailing for an answer, reaching for something that was no longer there, and the sense of loss and emptiness amplified my uncertainty and anger and uneasiness, and I realized my breath was hissing in and out between clenched teeth and my hands were clenched on the wheel and covered with a chilly sheen of sweat, and I thought, that's enough.

I began to wonder if perhaps I was still lying somewhere, tied up and drugged, and hallucinating all this. The idea was very comforting—but my stomach was growling, and my chest hurt where Debs had poked me, and I realized that something so unpleasant was probably true, and that meant I had to deal with it.

She lifted both hands chest-high and shook them from the wrist, and I very clearly thought, Wow. She's wringing her hands.

And so, Paris. Dexter trudges meekly along in the wake of the Good Ship Rita, staring and nodding where these things are required and occasionally offering a sharp and witty comment, like, "Wow," and "Uh-huh," as Rita trammels through the pent-up lust for Paris that has surged in her all these many years and now, at last, has found consummation.

I was like a little boy playing war, yelling, Bang, bang! Gotcha!, and looking up to see a real Sherman tank rolling right at me. It

So I took a quick circuit around the circular driveway. There were a couple of cars parked ostentatiously along the edge of the pavement: a Ferrari, a Bentley, and a Corniche. I didn't think our killer would be driving anything that cost more than a new house on the water, but I looked inside anyway. They were empty. The valet parking attendant watched me skeptically as I came back from looking into the Corniche. "You like it?" he asked me.

Loneliness is an art form

Where are we going?" I asked, clinging for dear life to the armrest. "The school," she said. "What school?" I asked her, wondering if the roar of the engine had hidden an important part of our conversation.

He just got wiser, darker, as wounded predators do.

Of course, Rita would never know what I really was, not if I could help it. I had worked very hard to keep her blissfully ignorant of the true me, Dexter the Dark, the cheerful vivisectionist who lived for the purr of duct tape, the gleam of the knife, and the smell of fear rising up from a truly deserving playmate who had earned his ticket to Dexterland by slaughtering the innocent and somehow slipping through the gaping cracks in the justice system.… Rita

The police did not like to come to neighborhoods like this one, where the best they could hope for was hostile indifference.

I wonder if I will have any teeth left by then. Not that I need them for the cheese-substance sandwiches. But teeth are good things to have in any case. They improve your smile, no matter how fake it is. And without teeth, all the money I have spent on toothpaste over the years would be a complete waste.

flaccid weakness, and