Saturday, January 18, 2014
the last book I ever read (The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, excerpt fourteen)
from Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch:
Blood smear on my cuff. Big fat drops.
“Trajectcontrole. That means some machine tells the police you are speeding. They drive unmarked cars, a lot of them, and sometimes they will follow a while before they stop you although—we are lucky—not much traffic out this way tonight. Weekend, I guess, and holiday. This is not exactly Happy Christmas neighborhood out here if you get me. You understand what just happened, don’t you?” said Boris, heaving for breath and scrubbing his nose hard with a gasping sound.
“No.” Somebody else talking, not me.