"“Dead bodies in my gardens?” muttered Irvine Pennington, sweating heavily as he led the way along a central allée of pleached hornbeam under‑planted with low‑clipped hedges of boxwood and waves of purple allium."
"Early Saturday morning, Eli and Charlotte lie in bed drinking coffee, enjoying what grainy sunlight the park allows into their window."
"Three months to the day—it was past time, she told herself—she drove to her son’s house to pack his things, get the place ready to sell."
"'I guess you should start calling me Oxana,' she says, a little regretfully."
"Here is what the sea smells like."
"I glanced back toward the double doors and realized that I’d had to buzz in because they were locked."
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