I always knew the kid was going to kill somebody, but no one believed me, especially my brother.
I had warned Mikey Ronagan that sooner or later someone was going to shoot that cocky smile off his face, so I don’t know why I’m letting the image of his dead body ruin my moment today . . .
The body didn’t belong in the freezer. It belonged in the Pasadena sunshine, skateboarding down the uneven sidewalks, cycling around McDonald Park, kicking a soccer ball around the Rose Bowl . . .
“Aren’t you hot in that?” She gestured at my sport coat. . . .
I left Los Angeles and moved to Long Beach, California, because I thought it’d be less cold—I don’t mean the temperature, I mean the atmosphere, the lack of caring, the judgment, the sheer disdain for those who haven’t made it. I escaped LA, but not the hell that it is to be a homeless woman . . .
Rage. The worst kind. That’s what filled Brody Altmeyer’s entire body after he finished reading the TechCrunch article on his iPhone . . .
On Clearwater Lake Road, there’s a fork. To get to Gerson’s U-Pick-It, you turn right. But I got turned around in my head and drove left . . .
A white Prius squealed up the driveway of the Chevron station and pulled around back. Dark, syrupy blood dried to the grill . . .