I never chose to be a writer: it chose me.  I’ve even tried to rid myself of it for good reasons, financial and protectively egoistic,..

Haunting eyes on the front page of the Sunday Chronicle stared back at Angelo so darkly that he held his breath. He removed his glasses,..

On Thursdays, because he got home past midnight, Yadav wouldn’t sound the car horn. He’d wait outside and flick the headlights on and off. If..