This is a weekly bloghop hosted by Freda’s Voice.
RULES:
Grab a book, any book.
Turn to Page 56 or 56% on your ereader. If you have to improvise, that is okay.
Find a snippet, short and sweet.
Post it.
from Page 56% of:
Pieces of Eight by Peter Hartog
I positioned myself behind the chair next to Deacon, my hands resting on its curved back. Beyond the windshield, Empire City blurred, blended streaks of shifting colors without beginning or end. Night had long fallen, soaking the world beneath a snowy abstract blanket where truth slept with lies and deceit. So many thoughts crowded my mind vying for my attention: the Flynns, the One, Pop, Ivan and the bratva, Jack, Mahoney, my feelings for Charlie.
And Leyla.
“It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones,” I quoted quietly.
I shook my head in bemusement. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had been right. My brain-attic was near capacity. Questions bounced around in my mind, banging off of dusty facts, clues, details and other minutiae, a vast amorphous jumble that up until now, had formulated little to no answers.
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