But sociopaths don't see other people as people. Something's wrong with their wiring, Nicole said. They don't have any empathy, and they don't feel fear. So they don't feel guilty when they kill. If anything, they feel powerful.
Fire was everything Joey wanted to be. Exciting. Dangerous. Beautiful. Destructive. And yet he controlled it. Other people were too boring, too afraid to do what he did.
Cassidy was watching Elizabeth with something like awe. This was a side to her that Allison hadn't seen before. Cassidy seemed to long for this woman's approval, automatically doing everything a little bigger and better any time Elizabeth's gaze turned in her direction
Amos was the first child they'd taken in, adopted at age six through an accredited agency in the former Soviet Union.
This man wouldn't stop until he killed Korena. Killed her. Clark couldn't let that happen.
In a low voice Sara told them about going to the park, seeing a man, and then not paying much attention to him until suddenly he was pushing a gun into her ribs as she unlocked her front door. He said he had to kill me or someone would kill him.
It took all of her considerable strength to heave the girl's wrapped body into her arms, pivot, and let it thump into the trunk.
Jenna stumbled backward, her eyes on the woman who slammed the door behind her with one foot while both hands held a gun. A big gun. Pointed right at Jenna.
Living with Grandma had taught Elizabeth the basic rules. At Grandma's she had learned that you were either a giver or a taker, predator or prey. And Cassidy Shaw had all the hallmarks of prey
Without hesitation, she made a fist and hit herself in the right eye, her knuckles making contact with the top of her cheekbone. And then she poured milk into her coffee.
Cassidy had been drawn to the crime beat because of its guaranteed drama. It offered murders, kidnappings, armed robbery, and the occasional hostage situation. But predictable it wasn't.
He turned his head, reacted in a microsecond, and hit the deck just before a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball zipped past his ear and clanged into the wire backstop. Had the pitch been another inch lower or a few miles an hour faster, he would have been beaned and, at that speed, possibly killed.
The last book, the one on the bottom, was a copy of the 1,500-page Gray's Anatomy. The weight was all wrong in her hands. She opened the cover, revealing a space hollowed out with surgical precision.