Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel

‘We aren’t our mistakes. It’s what we do about the mistake that shows who we are.’

She was twenty-nine years old today, and twenty-nine had an odd ring to it. The number seemed to signify not a landmark, but a staging post: “Next stop: THIRTY.”

They had the gift of being able to disagree without taking personal offense

“Why is that? Why wouldn’t anyone marry me? What ’aven’t I got, that ovver women ’ave?” asked the nurse who’d pulled back the eyelids from her drugged victims to stare into their unseeing eyes. “Nobody ever wanted to marry me… never… I wanted to be in the paper in a white dress.

Then he closed his eyes, and like millions of his fellow humans, wondered why troubles could never come singly, but in avalanches, so that you became increasingly destabilized with every blow that hit you.

Whether this was a tribute to the detective’s bulk, or to the aura of gravity and calm he managed to project in highly charged situations, Robin couldn’t tell, but she thought she saw Roy decide against yelling. After a brief hesitation, the doctor accepted Strike’s proffered hand, and as the two men shook, Robin wondered how aware men were of the power dynamics that played out between them, while women stood watching.

luxury of exhausted misery

For, if it were not so, there would be something disappearing into nothing, which is mathematically absurd.

Polworth and his family had been invited to the scattering of the ashes, along with Kerenza the Macmillan nurse.

him of cake, and he liked it. The second put him in mind of warm, mu