My name is Elizabeth Wellington.
There is an evil to him that goes beyond the worst I have read in books or seen in movies—an evil far more threatening than the shadowy figures I bring to life in my stories.
It is a cold February day as the city labours through the aftermath of a blizzard.
Baseball was his first love.
Because her self-appointed super-star lawyer husband traveled so much for work, Lucy spent a lot of time alone.
It was toward the end of September 1956 when the leaves from all the inner-city trees had already fallen.
Adam, in a horrid state, rouses himself up and searches about, no one to be seen.
The hypnotist’s voice is a glacial lake: smooth, distant, cold, and piercing.
I just wish I had my freedom.
I confess it again and again.