crime

What?

When you think about the period in which Agatha Christie's crime novels were written, they are actually quite edgy for the time.

All the clues are there in front of us,hidden under a veil,we cannot get the clue by searching for,we have to search for the veil instead.

I am taken to the police station and they place me in an interrogation room. I am there for about thirty minutes before someone walks in.

If everything comes in your way just the way you wanted them to ,then you're probably in the wrong lane.

C.J. had once believed that he understood who he was, what he was about, what he was capable of. But when the moment came to act upon these convictions, he discovered that his knowledge of self was faulty. Had his lack of killer instinct been a momentary lapse, first time jitters? Or was there more to it than that? If not the fearless, remorseless man he supposed himself to be, then just who was he?

This was a crime of passion, but unlike most crimes of passion, it had been meticulously and diabolically well-planned.

She's dead. So is your fat pansy. You can be dead, too, if you want.

There was nothing _ and nothing _ and then the car bumped up again. There was a muffled pop, the sound of a small pumpkin exploding in a microwave oven.Morris cut the wheel to the left and there was another bump as the Biscayne went back into the parking area. He looked in the mirror and saw that Curtis__ head was gone.

I started to drink heavily, comfortably caught in the tentacle-like clutches of alcohol.

He looks up and up and up to get to her face. His mama's a tall lady, and he's only seven. He's overwhelmed by red. Red heels, red nails, red lips, red hair, red eyes. So help him, the boy has always thought his mama's copper-colored eyes damn near shined red. He looks into those eyes and knows she's come home funny.

I know you, Ruth Ann Carver. I know you better than you know yourself. You think you do things right. You think you're a paragon of right living. This is a self-told lie, one bolstered by your coddling parents and grandparents.

It was like a commercial for laundry detergent or tampons or a prescription medication with death listed as a possible side effect.

Through the red haze of my blood I see a strange expression on his face. His eyes have come alive, and I don't like it at all. He's getting off on this now in a way he wasn't before. My first thought is that my honesty is feeding him in a bad, bad way and my second thought is not to question my gut."These are going to be very good days," he says to me.

God don't give out certain.

Life__ unpredictable patterns had a strange way of forming a connected web.

But if I die without trying again, I'm a coward. I don't mind having regrets about stuff I've done. It's the regrets about stuff I haven't done that bother me.

And what was I if not death's ghostwriter?