There’s a certain feeling to a recently searched room. Suddenly, your possessions know more than you do, they’ve seen more than you have. Now your aftershave has secrets.
It’s impossible to hide the disturbance entirely. At Windom Falls, we don’t even try.
Sister Perpetua held the helmet for a long time, her hands shaking slightly and then handed it back to the rider and said in a whisper, “Who are you?”
Standing before her was a woman—not that the Lord can’t be a woman, Perpetua knew. But why did her face look so familiar?
You try not falling in love with a spy. They know everything about you without any of the small talk. They’ve seen your dossier, they’ve tapped your phone, they’ve killed and impersonated your best friend for two years to learn everything they possibly can about you from beneath a very convincing rubber mask. […]
Only Perpetua understood what happened to the hog. The deafening rumble of the Harley disturbed the quiet contemplation of the nuns in the Benedictine convent house. Sister Perpetua alone embraced the hog. She knew it seemed wrong to ignore part of her monastic vocation—to revere silence. Instead, she cherished the motorbike’s chanting cadence, the thrill that burned through her body.
I like to be followed. Gives a gal a kick, you know? Spices up the hours in the minivan knowing you got a black sedan with diplomatic plates hot on your tail.
In Paris, so many lies flew through the pneumatic tubes. False intelligence sucked up and spat out. Rumors of uprisings and resistance.