A stir moves through the Pride House Group Home, and seconds later adolescent faces pig against the muggy front window.
My best friend, a seasoned homicide detective, is a master of discontent.
I CHECKED THE street in both directions in front of an upscale coffee house called Flat Bread and Butter on Amsterdam Avenue near 140th Street. The street was about as quiet as New York City gets.
It turns out the place we stopped for the night was a public park.
A slap. A cry. Distress, which seems a poor enough start to things.
Your house glows at night like everything inside is on fire.
Twig dolls peculiar to the small Sussex village of Chapel Croft.
I’m late for dinner again, but this time it’s not my fault. There’s a mansplainer in my way.
I began writing this book shortly after the end of my presidency—after Michelle and I had boarded Air Force One for the last time and traveled west for a long-deferred break.
Most morning, my husband, Doug, wakes up before me and reads the news in bed.
IT TOOK BOBBY a week to decide where to park. It had to be close to the wedding, but not too close.
The night she died, all our phones were turned off.
Twenty-Five years ago, Sam Neill wrote the introduction to this book’s predecessor, Timeless Land.
Some believe that at the beginning there was nothing.
Aroha mai, aroha atu.
As I reach for the doorbell, my phone bleeps with a text and my head instantly fills with a roll call of possibilities.
DEVON MONROE TORE HIS EYES off the two dead bodies in the powder-blue Bentley convertible, top down, idling not twenty yards away, and glanced at his best friend.
I open my eyes and I am tangled in the sheets, books upside down on the floor.