Killers of a Certain Age

Only women are ever called persnickety," Mary Alice said. "Men get to be 'detail oriented.

I’m a woman. Guilt is our birthright.

She might be less than what she had once been, but she was still worth a hell of a lot.

I'm a woman. Guilt is our birthright. Guilt if we want to be mothers, guilt if we take the Pill instead or choose to abort. Guilt if we stay home with our kids or guilt if we work. Guilt if we sleep with a man, guilt if we say no. Guilt if we're lucky enough to survive for no good reason.

Billie lies awake for a long time, watching the passing lights of cars on the highway and thinking about a strange phenomenon the French call l’appel du vide, the call of the void. It’s when you stand up high, staring into an abyss, and have a strong desire to throw yourself into it. It can take other forms. You might be driving and suddenly think about jerking the wheel, sending your car into oncoming traffic. Or you might be out for a hike and fantasize about hurling yourself off a cliff. It is not a suicidal impulse. In fact, it is the opposite. Psychologists say it’s actually about how much a person wants to live. They perceive a nearby threat to themselves and they think about that threat because they want so much to survive.

He was dressed like a tourist, his T-shirt tucked into belted jeans like a sociopath.

I loved you first and I will love you last

there were days I wrote get out of bed in my planner just to be able to feel like I’d accomplished something.

We looked like a girl gang that would have the Queen as our leader, all low heels and no-nonsense curls.

Jesus, what did you have for breakfast? A bowl of Honey Bunches of Bitch?

People have died for less. I know; I was there.

...The entire plan was there in shimmering hot pink ink. "It looks like a My Little Pony murder plot," Mary Alice said. "Jesus, is that glitter?" "I like it," Natalie said loyally. "I find it hard to take us seriously as agents of vengeance when our plot looks like a kindergarten craft project.

I’m a woman. Guilt is our birthright. Guilt if we want to be mothers, guilt if we take the Pill instead or choose to abort. Guilt if we stay home with our kids or guilt if we work. Guilt if we sleep with a man, guilt if we say no. Guilt if we’re lucky enough to survive for no good reason. I’m so damned sick of it. I’ve never been so tired of anything in my life. I just . . . I just want to go to sleep forever.

Six-year-olds can’t be assholes,” Mary Alice says. “The fact that you think they can says a lot.” “Yeah, it says that you’ve clearly never met a six-year-old.

You can, and you will. Women are every bit as capable of killing as men. And you have advantages that men do not. You are all attractive young women, and your appearance means men underestimate you. You will use this to your advantage.

It's a comfortable place, mediocrity. Never pushing oneself to the limit to see what you can take. Never staring down your fears, never reaching into yourself to find that last bit of courage. You don't even know what it is that you're made of-and what's more, you seem distinctly uninterested in finding out.

That’s the thing about being a sixty-year-old woman—no one notices you unless you want them to. That fact doesn’t do your ego any favors, but in cases like this, it was damned handy.

She sees the indignity of old age, how life becomes very small until there is nothing left of independence and power and beauty and freedom except a shell of a body that relies upon others for everything. It is terrible to witness

I like you a little more than I want to but not nearly as much as you think I do.

...it was the smile that said, 'I know best. I know better than you.' The smile that said, 'I'm safe here and you're not.' The smile that said, 'I have a dick, so I win.

What do you think my chances are there?” she asked. “Maybe he has a geriatric kink,” I said, shaking out my napkin. “Dab a little Metamucil behind each ear and go get him, cougar.” “No, no,” Mary Alice corrected. “She’s too old to be a cougar. She’s a saber-tooth tiger.

It isn’t your anger that will make you good at this job. It is your joy.

I am interested in justice, not the law. There is an unfortunate difference.

I’m pretty sure somewhere in the afterlife, some woman is feeling ashamed of herself because her cloud isn’t as silver as the angel next door’s.

Trouble has smelled like a lot of things in my life. A job gone wrong. A one-way street I never should have turned down. A man in faded Levi's with a smile that broke my heart half a dozen times and loved it back together again.

In Classical mythology, the Furies were the bringers of vengeance. They tortured people who had not paid for their crimes.” A tiny smile plays about Constance Halliday’s mouth. “Homer said they lived in darkness and had no pity. He called them avengers, the daughters of the night. It was righteous anger that sustained them.

Every person who identifies female and has rage. I feel you, sister. This one’s for you.

Because she doesn’t apologize for anything. She had a rotten start in life, but she’s made the best of it. She lives on her own terms. She knows who she is and what she wants, and she does what she is good at. And she has a good time doing it.

Mourning is a bitch. And it’s a process. You’re just not finished with it.” “That’s the point,” she said. “I think I am. At least I want to be. I am so sick and tired of waking up feeling like someone tore off one of my limbs. Every morning, for just a few seconds, I forget. I wake up and it hasn’t happened yet. There’s nothing but emptiness and calm. And then it comes crashing down and I hate it. I hate it so much.

Forty years on one of the most elite assassin squads on earth and it finished like this, with a free cruise and a bouncy letter from a girl who signed her letters with hashtags.