Writing Detective Stories Is About Writing Light

There's Always Someone Willing To Believe Malicious Rumours.

Plague Might Be A Social Incompetent, But He Was Unquestionably A Genius.

Her Voice Was As Rough As Sandpaper. As Long As Blomkvist Lived, He Would Never Forget Her Face As She Went On The Attack. Her Teeth Were Bared Like A Beast Of Prey. Her Eyes Were Glittering, Black As Coal. She Moved With The Lightning Speed Of A Tarantula And Seemed Totally Focus On Her Prey As She Swung The Club Again, Striking Martin In The Ribs.

The Whole Organization Seemed To Be In Free Fall, Indulging In A Collective Fantasy In Which Experienced Colleagues Refused To Admit That Their Every Movement, Every Decision That Was Made And Implemented, Only Led Them One Step Closer To The Abyss.

Only A Woman Who Had Killed A Man In Battle Was Allowed To Give Up Her Virginity.