When Kenny shot Charlie, no one was really sure how to react. It wasn't because it was all that surprising — Kenny had had it out for Charlie since day one — but we didn't know whether to rejoice at the end of a feud or dread whatever was coming next.
“Where’s my cannoli?” a little voice behind me says.
I was married, once. She was French. Her names was Inès, and I suppose I should have known that any woman whose name means “chaste” (especially if she’s French) is destined to live ironically.
What impresses me most about this book is it's crazy but clear logic — the skill with which Flynn is able to orchestrate this insane narrative and the meticulous planning she must have done to make this story work.
It was on that first night in August when Lily Böhn tip-toed across the cobbles of Isola Bella to the Pier in her pink ballet slippers that she heard the gospel truth from Harvey Whittaker.