339 Quotes About Mystery-suspense

Your eyes are different in this light. No colour at all. Like cement.

I looked at my hands, turned them over in the tarnished shine of streetlights seeping through a crack in the curtains. They were long; strong and competent with nicely shaped nails; hard enough for a palm strike, soft enough to trace gentle arabesques on a taut trembling stomach or along a soft inner thigh. The stains did not show.

Angst was for the dark.

Here on her own turf she looked different: more whole and competent; denser somehow.

I’ve heard horror stories of Old Masters wrapped in newspapers and arriving with ghastly copes of the funnies imprinted on a stately old forehead.

This was the kind of work I understood. I knew where wood came from, that for every tree cut down, another was planted, that I could make a chair both functional and beautiful. I was adding to the world, not taking.

He was always just about to leave, always about to pick up the phone, and he always persuaded himself for a minute or two that stretched into thirty, into two hours, into night. We go back a long way.

What kind of car did Michael Honeycutt, banker, drive? What did he look like, how did he sound? I wanted to see him, to weigh the fabric of his suit, smell his cologne, judge his haircut, watch his body language, listen to the way he shaped his vowels.

When an imago first pushes free of the budding chrysalis and unfolds its still-damp wings, anything, even something as ephermal as breath, can deform the final, glorious insect. A crass question now could crush this fragile new understanding. I asked anyway.