Memories, You See, Hurt. The Good Ones

Myron Reached For The Phone And Dialed Win's Number. After The Eighth Ring He Began To Hang Up When A Weak, Distant Voice Coughed. "hello?" Win?" Yeah." You Okay?" Hello?" Win?" Yeah." What Took You So Long To Answer The Phone?" Hello?" Win?" Who Is This?" Myron." Myron Bolitar?" How Many Other Myrons Do You Know?" Myron Bolitar?" No, Myron Rockefeller." Something's Wrong," Win Said. What?" Terribly Wrong." What Are You Talking About?" Some Asshole Is Calling Me At Seven In The Morning Pretending To Be My Best Friend." Sorry, I Forgot The Time.

Sometimes The Loudest Cries For Help Are Silent.

No, I Don’t Live In Heartache. I Don’t Cry Myself To Sleep Or Any Of That. I Am, I Tell Myself, Over It. But I Do Feel A Void, Icky As That Sounds. And—like It Or Not—i Still Think About Her Every Single Day.

You Know, People Call Mystery Novels Or Thrillers 'puzzles.' I Never Understood That, Because When I Buy A Puzzle, I Already Know What It Is. It's On The Box. And Even If I Don't, If It's A 5,000-piece Puzzle Of The 'mona Lisa', It's Not Like I Put The Last Piece In And Go, 'i Had No Idea It's The 'mona Lisa'!'

The Readers Are The Ones Who Let Us Live Our Dreams. I Try To Write Books Which Are Really Compelling - That You'd Take On Vacation And Rather Than Going Out, You'd Read In Your Hotel Room Because You Had To Find Out What Happened. Hopefully That's What Readers Are Responding To.