339 Quotes About Mystery-suspense

We had never really talked to each other after I was nine years old. She had been busy and I had been resentful. I had grown up independent, and then she had not known how to find me. I wasn’t even sure she wanted to, or what she might find if she did.

The dogwood blossom was gone, azaleas in full bloom, and the air cupped my cheek as softly as a woman’s hand.

I rubbed glistening liquid onto the armrests and imagined the hands that would touch the wood, perhaps resting there between turning the pages of a book, perhaps stroking the smooth wood, absently at first, then slipping a bit as the owner slept.

Julia laughed and picked up the pace and for a while we swung along in the opposite step, hip to hip, her right leg moving out with my left, so I could feel her boot hit the ground, feel it through the soles of my feet, up to my calves, in my pelvis. It didn’t last, of course. My legs are longer.

She held out her hands and we hugged. I remembered when she used to engulf me. Now I was an inch or two taller, though her bone and muscle still felt like granite.

They both turned to look at me and I wondered how a person could become the outsider so fast.

As the sun went down and left candlelight wavering over brow and throat, wrist and mouth, it seemed for a moment that they could be almost the same age: two women enjoying a conversation.

This was the world I belonged to now, this one, where when a living thing died it fed others, where the scents were of mouse drops and sap, not exhaust fumes and cordite, and the air hummed with insects rather than screams and the roar of flame.

Ninety feet over my head the canopy of ash and white basswood shivered the constant mountain breeze; it was never quiet, not even at night. I stood for a while and just listened.