Quotes About Intrigue

behind every closed door might wait a thief of minds and a collector of souls.

Some mysteries bite and bark and come to get you in the dark.

What's gotten into you today? All evening

Well, I guess if you were going to spin me up in a cocoon or plant an egg in my brain or kill me, you'd have done it already. Come on in. Can I get you coffee or anything?

it. At intervals of forty or fifty feet, air monitors were mounted on the right-hand wall. I found no signs of tampering. If the passageway led to the cooling-tower vault, as I was sure that it must, then it would be about four hundred feet long. Twice I thought I heard something behind me. When I looked over my shoulder, nothing loomed. The third time, I refused to succumb to the urge to glance back. Irrational

Fannie Ann Tatas

I have known her less than twenty-four hours. And the longer I know her, the more she mystifies me. She is perhaps eighteen, almost four years younger than me, but she seems much older. The things she says are often cryptic, though I feel that the meaning would be clear to me if I were wiser than I am.

I pushed the door inward. It moved as smoothly, as silently as the mechanism of a well-crafted, spring-loaded trap.

When they return to the Range Rover, a man looms beside it, shadowless in the hard, plumb light

peering in the starboard window of the cargo

David wondered what kind of dark-minded people wanted items from the abattoir of a rapist-murderer and how Stuart Ulrich knew where to advertise to attract their attention.

taut. She looked out of the windows, left and right—and her tail began to swish.

She stands just outside her door, puzzled, vaguely disquieted.

He says, "You have a fox in there.

Joanna Rand

scimitar moon

What's he a mix of—fox with fox?

The stranger has gone to the back of the vehicle. "He's trying the liftgate," Libby says.

What're you—Jane Hawk?

He checks his iPhone and discovers one text message. As always, it is from Ace of Diamonds

wicker, and it bestrode

or some federal black-op outfit with no name, that is more problematic.

Treat the study as if we're in a Daphne du Maurier novel, as if this house is an alternate-universe version of Manderley, and I am keeping either the murdered and mummified corpse of Rebecca or Mrs. Danvers—or both!—behind that locked door, to spare myself from a long prison sentence.

he has no fingerprints.