“This is my fault. Mine. Making her think I'd be here for her.”

“And it was different because I'd already lost her so many times, so many ways, in my head. And different because she was never really mine to lose.And different because this wasn't my fault.”

“A girl my age had been murdered in these woods and I'd seen her last terrified moments, watched her bleed to death in this forest. A life like mine had ended here, and it didn't matter how many times I'd seen deaths in movies, it wasn't the same, and I wasn't ever going to forget it.”

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa”—my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault—as she pounded her fist to her chest three times as if pounding shut a door to keep her guilt from escaping.”

“If she was mine, I'd cherish every inch of her. And I wanted to. Now”

“I think she is beautiful, but in a way that is not friendly, like in a way that just makes me want her to be mine.”