Nine Liars

You know, the best fanfic I ever read was an erotic story about Thor and Tony Stark living together on a Christmas tree sex farm.

Group friendships are products of the right time—the chemistry of season, activity, emotion, and random occurrence. They coalesced over a series of long nights at the pub, in rehearsal spaces, cafés, and bedrooms.

Nate would tolerate most things for about an hour if he knew there was the promise of a snack and the chance to be left alone in the near future.

Stevie packed like someone who just heard that reports of the monster were true, and it was headed toward the city.

We’re good at lying,” Sebastian said, leaning over and managing a smile. “We’ve been doing it for years.

I’ve got a murder mansion, a house full of suspects, a pile of evidence, and nothing.

Who the hell is she?” Nate asked Stevie quietly. “Why does she like us?” Stevie shrugged. “We’re likable?” “Not really,” he said. “We’re okay at best. Are all English people this friendly?

The surefire way to get someone to tell you something you want to know isn’t to ask them about it. What you do is start telling the story yourself, say what you think happened, and say it wrong. People may not want to discuss things, but they will correct you, every time.

There is an insatiable appetite for things about the wives of Henry the Eighth. Everyone loves them. Sex and murder.

This was England. There was always rain in the future.

I always had a thing about mushrooms. They’re the odd little children of the forest. I suppose I related

Lie. It was such a gross word, with spikes on it. She was a liar. A fiendish thing.

Some people simply knew what they were supposed to be doing and did it, and those people were the worst of all. Stevie’s brain had to hit a white-hot pitch of panic before it was willing to do any real work. It would work quickly then. It was a good brain, but it had only two modes—fog and frenzy.

It was a good brain, but it had only two modes—fog and frenzy.

They’re English,” David said, sitting on the bed. “That keep calm and carry on thing is real. You know. Don’t talk about stuff that’s bad. Talk about tennis! That’s how they are.

It was a deathtrap, a meandering thread of madness. It suggested that there was something about English people that she may never understand.

Three: Izzy made it sound like Stevie was Wikipedia Holmes, a walking, talking, deducing database that ate true crime and spat out justice.

He was usually her companion in avoiding things, but tonight he was letting her down. His fingers hadn’t stopped moving all night.

Once threw a mug of tea at a policeman

What if she gave herself bangs? She could give herself bangs. She went over to her desk to look for scissors, then remembered that Janelle had taken her scissors two weeks before because Stevie had said something out loud about maybe giving herself bangs.

At pub. Vodka sodass ar twi pounds I screwed upp gonna drink everything all the vofka sodas

There was no name for this staggering monolith of heartbreak. She tried to note that it was pain—pain, pain, pain, fear, pain, agony, panic, pain, nausea, embarrassment, anger, loss

Nate sat next to her, keeping an inch or two between them. “Do you want me to . . .” He searched for something to say. “I don’t know, punch him in the dick or something?

I’m saying I’m ace,” he said. “Asexual. I always knew, but I only kind of put the words to it in the last few months,” he went on. “You’re the first person I’ve told.

But I think it’s because I went down very low and got quite a lot of therapy that I overcame the horror of it. Or I learned to live with it. I came out the best of all, but I had to go all the way down before I came back up.

This is a two-way road,” the driver said. “You’re American? You have quite wide roads in America, don’t you?” This was not a two-lane road. This was a tiny, tiny, tiny path surrounded by a high wall of greenery that blocked the view. It was a deathtrap, a meandering thread of madness. It suggested that there was something about English people that she may never understand.

The gray English light suited him. It was light for indoor people, for ghosts, for royalty and urchins. For writers.

That’s why I can sleep anywhere now.

When you want someone to tell you something—don't ask, tell it wrong.