The Devil At His Elbow Quotes

A man's at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.

You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.

when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.

It's a mystery. A man's at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.

Mephistopheles waved her off as she left. “One more woman running off with another man. I’m losing my touch.” “Have you considered you might be a Thorne in their sides?” Thomas asked. “You certainly can be a pric—” “Thomas,” I whispered harshly, pinching the inside of his elbow. “How clever,” Mephistopheles said blandly. “You’ve made my name into a pun. What other comedic brilliance will you think of next? I wish I could say I missed this”—he motioned between himself and Thomas—“but that sort of lying doesn’t pay my bills.” “Nor do the gemstones on your suits,” Thomas muttered. “Are you still jealous about my jackets?” Mephistopheles grinned. “For the love of the queen,” I said, interrupting before they really got into it.

You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the Devil was at his elbow

If he didn’t do it,” McDowell said, “how did he know what time to lie about not being there?

I’ll find my own way out,” I told him, turning away and heading for the door before he could see my lips tremble. But then he caught the inside of my elbow and yanked me backward, and I gasped as my back crashed into his chest. “Don’t go.” His voice shook.

Oh. I see. So your grace never curses.” “I do not.” “Words like cor . . . bollocks . . . damn . . . devil . . . blast . . . bloody hell . . .” She pronounced the words with relish, warming to her task. “They don’t cross a duchess’s lips?” “No.” “Never?” “Never.” Miss Simms’s fair brow creased in thought. “What if a duchess steps on a tack? What if a gust of wind steals a duchess’s best powdered wig? Not even then?” “Not even when an impertinent farm girl provokes a duchess to a simmering rage,” she replied evenly. “A duchess might contemplate all manner of cutting remarks and frustrated oaths. But even in the face of extreme annoyance, she stifles any such ejaculations.” “My,” Miss Simms said, wide-eyed. “I do hope dukes aren’t held to the same standard. Can’t be healthy for a man, always stifling his ejaculations.” Griff promptly broke the prohibition against elbows on the table, smothering a burst of laughter with his palm and disguising it as a coughing

Merritt propped up on her elbows and glanced over him. "You have very large..." She hesitated. "...feet." Keir turned on his side to face her, a smile tugging at his lips. "That I do." He reached out to play with the lace trim at the neckline of her bodice. "Do you like a man with large feet?

You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow.

They say you’ve got two kinds of family, the family you were born with and the family you chose,” said one of the lawyers following the case. “Alex stole from both.

He grabbed my elbow and pulled us close again. 'Don't you know you can have anything you want?' he repeated his words from a couple of weeks ago. 'I'd hurt anyone for you. Who the hell is it?

He cried so hard, so often, that one juror offered a box of tissues. When Alex dabbed his eyes, the jurors seated closest to him, only a few feet away, looked at the crumpled tissues in his hand. The tissues were dry.

Unhappily, Chase ended on the bottom of the tussle. Ashbury’s knee sank into his gut. “God Almighty, man,” Chase said. “What the devil’s wrong with you? Besides all the obvious things.” “You veriest varlet.” Ashbury lowered his mangled face to within an inch of Chase’s nose. “This. Is. Nap. Time.” Chase was nonplussed. “What?” The duke rolled aside, resting on his elbow as he worked for breath. “My infant son is currently upstairs, sleeping for the first time in nineteen hours. The only thing keeping me from disemboweling you here in the entrance hall, you cream-faced rooting hog, is that you’d probably wake him with all your sniveling and sobbing for mercy.” “Oh.

You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.

George meanwhile, with his hat on one side, his elbows squared, and his swaggering martial air, made for Bedford Row, and stalked into the attorney’s offices as if he was lord of every pale-faced clerk who was scribbling there. He ordered somebody to inform Mr. Higgs that Captain Osborne was waiting, in a fierce and patronizing way, as if the pekin of an attorney, who had thrice his brains, fifty times his money, and a thousand times his experience, was a wretched underling who should instantly leave all his business in life to attend on the Captain’s pleasure. He did not see the sneer of contempt which passed all round the room, from the first clerk to the articled gents, from the articled gents to the ragged writers and white-faced runners, in clothes too tight for them, as he sate there tapping his boot with his cane, and thinking what a parcel of miserable poor devils these were. The miserable poor devils knew all about his affairs. They talked about them over their pints of beer at their public-house clubs to other clerks of a night. Ye gods, what do not attorneys and attorneys’ clerks know in London! Nothing is hidden from their inquisition, and their families mutely rule our city.

Brought up with an idea of God, a Christian, my whole life filled with the spiritual blessings Christianity has given me, full of them, and living on those blessings, like the children I did not understand them, and destroy, that is try to destroy, what I live by. And as soon as an important moment of life comes, like the children when they are cold and hungry, I turn to Him, and even less than the children when their mother scolds them for their childish mischief, do I feel that my childish efforts at wanton madness are reckoned against me. "Yes, what I know, I know not by reason, but it has been given to me, revealed to me, and I know it with my heart, by faith in the chief thing taught by the church. "The church! the church!" Levin repeated to himself. He turned over on the other side, and leaning on his elbow, fell to gazing into the distance at a herd of cattle crossing over to the river. "But can I believe in all the church teaches?" he thought, trying himself, and thinking of everything that could destroy his present peace of mind. Itentionally he recalled all those doctrines of the church which had always seemed most strange and had always been a stumbling block to him. "The Creation? But how did I explain existence? By existence? By nothing? The devil and sin. But how do I explain evil?... The atonement?... "But I know nothing, nothing, and I can know nothing but what has been told to me and all men." And it seemed to him that there was not a single article of faith of the church which could destroy the chief thing--faith in God, in goodness, as the one goal of man's destiny. Under every article of faith of the church could be put the faith in the service of truth instead of one's desires. And each doctrine did not simply leave that faith unshaken, each doctrine seemed essential to complete that great miracle, continually manifest upon earth, that made it possible for each man and millions of different sorts of men, wise men and imbeciles, old men and children--all men, peasants, Lvov, Kitty, beggars and kings to understand perfectly the same one thing, and to build up thereby that life of the soul which alone is worth living, and which alone is precious to us. Lying on his back, he gazed up now into the high, cloudless sky. "Do I not know that that is infinite space, and that it is not a round arch? But, however I screw up my eyes and strain my sight, I cannot see it not round and not bounded, and in spite of my knowing about infinite space, I am incontestably right when I see a solid blue dome, and more right than when I strain my eyes to see beyond it." Levin ceased thinking, and only, as it were, listened to mysterious voices that seemed talking joyfully and earnestly within him. "Can this be faith?" he thought, afraid to believe in his happiness. "My God, I thank Thee!" he said, gulping down his sobs, and with both hands brushing away the tears that filled his eyes.

Boxing the Jesuit?” Stephan nudged Grey with an elbow, and raised thick blond brows in puzzlement. “Cockroaches? What does this mean, please?” “Ahhh…” Having no notion of the German equivalent of this expression, Grey resorted to a briefly graphic gesture with one hand, looking over his shoulder to be sure that none of the women was watching. “Oh!” Von Namtzen looked mildly startled, but then grinned widely. “I see, yes, very good!

Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped over the way. The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, "This is our man." "What the devil do you do in that galley there?" said Monsieur Defarge to himself; "I don't know you." But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter. "How goes it, Jacques?" said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. "Is all the spilt wine swallowed?" "Every drop, Jacques," answered Monsieur Defarge. When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line. "It is not often," said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur Defarge, "that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?" "It is so, Jacques," Monsieur Defarge returned. At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line. The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty drinking vessel and smacked his lips. "Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I right, Jacques?" "You are right, Jacques," was the response of Monsieur Defarge. This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and slightly rustled in her seat. "Hold then! True!" muttered her husband. "Gentlemen--my wife!" The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose of spirit, and became absorbed in it. "Gentlemen," said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly upon her, "good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor- fashion, that you wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard close to the left here," pointing with his hand, "near to the window of my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!" They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word. "Willingly, sir," said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to the door. Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.

A man’s at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it.

Lost ye way in the dark, said the old man. He stirred the fire, standing slender tusks of bone up out of the ashes. The kid didn’t answer. The old man swung his head back and forth. The way of the transgressor is hard. God made this world, but he didn’t make it to suit everybody, did he? I don’t believe he much had me in mind. Aye, said the old man. But where does a man come by his notions. What world’s he seen that he liked better? I can think of better places and better ways. Can ye make it be? No. No. It’s a mystery. A man’s at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he don’t want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It ain’t the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make a machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it. You believe that? I don’t know. Believe that

His tongue slid down the inner length of her finger, then traced the lines on her palm. “Such lovely hands,” he murmured, nibbling on the fleshy part of her thumb as his fingers entwined with hers. “Strong, and yet so graceful and delicate.” “You’re talking nonsense,” Kate said self-consciously. “My hands—” But he silenced her with a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” he admonished. “Haven’t you learned that you should never ever contradict your husband when he is admiring your form?” Kate shivered with delight. “For example,” he continued, the very devil in his voice, “if I want to spend an hour examining the inside of your wrist”— with lightning-quick movements, his teeth grazed the delicate thin skin on the inside of her wrist—“ it is certainly my prerogative, don’t you think?” Kate had no response, and he chuckled, the sound low and warm in her ears. “And don’t think I won’t,” he warned, using the pad of his finger to trace the blue veins that pulsed under her skin. “I may decide to spend two hours examining your wrist.” Kate watched with fascination as his fingers, touching her so softly that she tingled from the contact, made their way to the inside of her elbow, then stopped to twirl circles on her skin. “I can’t imagine,” he said softly, “that I could spend two hours examining your wrist and not find it lovely.” His hand made the jump to her torso, and he used his palm to lightly graze the tip of her puckered breast. “I should be most aggrieved were you to disagree.” He leaned down and captured her lips in a brief, yet searing kiss. Lifting his head just an inch, he murmured, “It is a wife’s place to agree with her husband in all things, hmmm?” His words were so absurd that Kate finally managed to find her voice. “If,” she said with an amused smile, “his opinions are agreeable, my lord.” One of his brows arched imperiously. “Are you arguing with me, my lady? And on my wedding night, no less.” “It’s my wedding night, too,” she pointed out. He made a clucking noise and shook his head. “I may have to punish you,” he said. “But how? By touching?” His hand skimmed over one breast, then the next. “Or not touching?” He lifted his hands from her skin, but he leaned down, and through pursed lips, blew a soft stream of air over her nipple. “Touching,” Kate gasped, arching off the bed. “Definitely touching.” “You think?” He smiled, slowly like a cat. “I never thought I’d say this, but not touching has its appeal.

Coming to the balcony, they both rested their elbows on the railing and looked down into the main room, which was filled wall-to-wall with patrons. Evie saw the antique-gold gleam of Sebastian’s hair as he half sat on the desk in the corner, relaxed and smiling as he conversed with the crowd of men around him. His actions of ten days ago in saving Evie’s life had excited a great deal of public admiration and sympathy, especially after an article in the Times had portrayed him in a heroic light. That, and the perception that his friendship with the powerful Westcliff had renewed, were all it had taken for Sebastian to gain immediate and profound popularity. Piles of invitations arrived at the club daily, requesting the attendance of Lord and Lady St. Vincent at balls, soirees, and other social events, which they declined for reasons of mourning. There were letters as well, heavily perfumed and written by feminine hands. Evie had not ventured to open any of them, nor had she asked about the senders. The letters had accumulated in a pile in the office, remaining sealed and untouched, until Evie had finally been moved to say something to him earlier that morning. “You have a large pile of unread correspondence,” she had told him, as they had taken breakfast together in his room. “It’s occupying half the space in the office. What shall we do with all the letters?” An impish smile rose to her lips as she added. “Shall I read them to you while you rest?” His eyes narrowed. “Dispose of them. Or better yet, return them unopened.” His response had caused a thrill of satisfaction, though Evie had tried to conceal it. “I wouldn’t object if you corresponded with other women,” she said. “Most men do, with no impropriety attached—” “I don’t.” Sebastian had looked into her eyes with a long, deliberate stare, as if to make certain that she understood him completely. “Not now.

God made this world, but he didnt make it to suit everbody, did he? I dont believe he much had me in mind. Aye, said the old man. But where does a man come by his notions. What world’s he seen that he liked better? I can think of better places and better ways. Can ye make it be? No. No. It’s a mystery. A man’s at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it. You believe that? I dont know. Believe that.

I’m a decade her senior. I was a friend of her father, and I’m sure she looks upon me like a benevolent uncle. Even if she didn’t, I promised Charles I wouldn’t lay a hand on her.” The Earl of Marsden had been one of his dearest friends-practically his only friend. A promise to such a friend should not be easily broken. Archer jerked back, disbelief coloring his angular features. “Why the hell did you do that?” Grey shrugged. “He asked it of me.” Shaking his head, Archer exhaled a breath. “You never told me that before.” “I suppose I was ashamed.” And hurt, even though he understood his friend only made the request to protect his only child from a man whose sexual conquests had resulted in his being marked for like. Were the situation reversed, Grey might have very well demanded the same promise. And despite being a libertine, he was a man of his word. Archer stared at him for a long moment, elbow braced on the table, chin resting on his thumb as his index finger stroked his stubbled upper lip. “Devil take it, Grey. Charles Danvers was one cruel bugger.” A bitter smile curved Grey’s lips at the insult to his late friend. “Quite.

The day after you pop up at your distillery alive and kicking, someone will come to finish you off." "Let them try," Keir shot back. "I can defend myself." The duke arched a mocking brow. "Impressive. Only a matter of days ago, we were celebrating that you were able to drink through a straw. And now apparently you're well enough for an alley fight." Keir was instantly hostile. "I know how to keep up my guard." "That doesn't matter," Kingston replied. "As soon as your arm muscles fatigue, your elbows will drift outward, and he'll find an opening." "What would a toff like you know about fighting? Even with my ribs cracked, you couldn't take me down." The older man's stare was that of a seasoned lion being challenged by a brash cub. Calmly he picked up a small open pepper cellar from the table and dumped a heap of ground black pepper in the center of Keir's plate. Perplexed, Keir glanced down at it, as a puff of gray dust floated upward. His nose stung, and in the next breath, he sneezed. A searing bolt of agony shot through his rib cage. "Aghhh! He turned away from his plate and doubled over. "Devil take your sneakit arse!" he managed to gasp.

Let me go!” “Not until I find out what you’re plotting. Is Catherine Marks even your real name? Who the hell are you?” He swore as she began to struggle in earnest. “Hold still, you little she-devil. I just want to’ouch!” This last as she turned and jabbed a sharp elbow in his side. The maneuver gained Marks the freedom she sought, but her spectacles went flying to the ground. “My spectacles!” With an aggravated sigh, she dropped to her hands and knees and began feeling for them. Leo’s fury was instantly smothered by guilt. From the looks of it, she was practically blind without the spectacles. And the sight of her crawling on the ground made him feel like a brute. A jackass. Lowering to his knees, he began to hunt for them as well. “Did you see the direction they went in?” he asked. “If I did,” she said, fuming, “I wouldn’t need spectacles, would I?” A short silence. “I’ll help you find them.” “How kind of you,” she said acidly. For the next few minutes the two of them traversed the garden on their hands and knees, searching among the daffodils. They both chewed on the gristly silence as if it were a mutton chop. “So you actually need spectacles,” Leo finally said. “Of course I do,” Marks said crossly. “Why would I wear spectacles if I didn’t need them?” “I thought they might be part of your disguise.” “My disguise?” “Yes, Marks, disguise. A noun describing a means of concealing someone’s identity. Often used by clowns and spies. And now apparently governesses. Good God, can anything be ordinary for my family?

When Evie awakened alone in the large bed, the first thing she beheld was a scattering of pale pink splashes over the snowy white linens, as if someone had spilled blush-colored wine in bed. Blinking sleepily, she propped herself up on one elbow and touched one of the pink dabs with a single fingertip. It was a creamy pink rose petal, pulled free of a blossom and gently dropped to the sheet. Gazing around her, she discovered that rose petals had been sprinkled over her in a light rain. A smile curved her lips, and she lay back into the fragrant bed. The night of heady sensuality seemed to have been part of some prolonged erotic dream. She could hardly believe the things she had allowed Sebastian to do, the intimacies that she had never imagined were possible. And in the drowsy aftermath of their passion, he had cradled her against his chest and they had talked for what seemed to be hours. She had even told him the story of the night when she and Annabelle and the Bowman sisters had become friends, sitting in a row of chairs at a ball. "We made up a list of potential suitors and wrote it on our empty dance cards," Evie had told him. "Lord Westcliff was at the top of the list, of course. But you were at the bottom, because you were obviously not the marrying kind." Sebastian had laughed huskily, tangling his bare legs intimately with hers. "I was waiting for you to ask me." "You never spared me a glance," Evie had replied wryly. "You weren't the sort of man to dance with wallflowers." Sebastian had smoothed her hair, and was silent for a moment. "No, I wasn't," he had admitted. "I was a fool not to have noticed you. If I had bothered to spend just five minutes in your company, you'd never have escaped me." He had proceeded to seduce her as if she were still a virginal wallflower, coaxing her to let him make love to her by slow degrees, until he was finally sheathed in her trembling body.

Her hands slipped down to his chest, the firm surface covered with a light fleece of coarse golden hair. With his body still joined to hers, St. Vincent held still beneath her inquisitive fingers. She touched his lean sides, exploring the hard vaulting of his ribs and the satiny plane of his back. His blue eyes widened, and then he dropped his head to the pillow beside hers, growling as his body worked inside hers with a deep thrust, as he was helplessly shaken with new tremors of rapture. His mouth fastened on hers with a primal greed. She opened her legs wider, pulled at his back to urge more of his weight on her, trying in spite of the pain to tug him deeper, harder. Braced on his elbows to keep from crushing her, he rested his head on her chest, his breath hot and light as it fanned over her nipple. The bristle of his cheek stung her skin a little, the sensation causing the tips of her breasts to contract. His sex was still buried inside her, though it had softened. He was silent but awake, his eyelashes a silky tickle against her skin. Evie remained quiet as well, her arms encircling his head, her fingers playing in his beautiful hair. She felt the weight of his head shift, the wet heat of his mouth seeking her nipple. His lips fastened over it, and his tongue slowly traced the outer edge of the gathered aureole, around and around until he felt her stirring restlessly beneath him. Keeping the tender bud inside his mouth, he licked steadily, sweetly, while desire ignited her breasts and her stomach and loins, and the soreness dissolved in a fresh wave of need. Intently he moved to the other breast, nibbling, stroking, seeming to feed on her pleasure. He levered upward enough to allow his hand to slide between them, and his cunning fingers slid into the wet nest of hair, finding the tingling feminine crest and teasing skillfully. She felt herself sliding into another climax, her body clamping voluptuously on the hot flesh that was insinuated deep inside her.

For God’s sake, Anders, your pacing is driving me wild,” Leigh said with exasperation. “Sit down.” Anders paused with surprise and turned to peer at the brunette curled up in the corner of the couch with a book in her hands. “I’m not pacing, I’m . . .” She arched her eyebrows, waiting, and he sighed. “Pacing,” he acknowledged and sank onto the nearest chair. He rested his elbows on his spread knees, allowing his hands to dangle between them, and stared out the window. After several minutes, he dropped back in the chair with a heavy sigh, then straightened and asked impatiently, “What the devil is she doing up there?” “She’s checking with her academic advisor to ensure that missing the first two weeks of classes won’t bugger her up for the term,” Leigh reminded him patiently. “Yeah, but that should have been a five-minute conversation. She’s been up there over an hour,” he complained. Valerie had helped clean up the kitchen after breakfast, then had taken Roxy with her and escaped upstairs on the pretext of calling the veterinary college to be sure she was still welcome after missing the first two weeks of the semester. “Yes, well, perhaps whoever she needs to speak to wasn’t available and she’s waiting for a call back,” Leigh suggested. “Or maybe they had work for her to do to keep from falling behind and she’s up their reading her textbooks and studying.” “Or maybe she’s hiding,” Anders said unhappily. Leigh tsked with irritation. “Why would she be hiding?” Anders didn’t respond, but in his mind he was remembering their kiss that morning . . . well, kisses. Or maybe one kiss. He wasn’t sure how to classify it. Did you have to come up for air to classify it as more than one kiss? Or was it counted in minutes or seconds? Because it had been a constant devouring of each other’s mouths for several minutes. “Oh my, yes. I see,” Leigh murmured. Anders glanced up at her murmur and noted her narrowed concentration on him. She’d read his damn mind. “Yes, that might have made her want to hide out,” she said sympathetically. “It wasn’t that long ago when I had my first encounter with life mate passion. It was pretty terrifying. And she didn’t have any idea what was happening. I mean, as an immortal you had heard about it, had some idea of what to expect, and yet you were still overwhelmed by it. Imagine how she must feel. She got hit by a nuclear explosion of passion out of nowhere.” Anders sighed and ran one hand wearily over his closely cropped hair. Leigh wasn’t saying a damned thing he hadn’t already thought of. Which was why he suspected Valerie was hiding out. The question was, how long would she hide? And how was he supposed to get her to know and trust him if she wouldn’t come out of her room?

What does he have planned?” “He said it was a surprise, but apparently it includes all my favorites things about the city.” “That’s cute. Maybe it’ll be the refresher you guys need. It’s hard being apart for so long, especially when there is a super-hot ex-boyfriend living next to you.” I give her a pointed look. “And speak of the devil. Look whose truck just pulled into the driveway.” Amanda puts her drink on the coffee table and crawls on top of me, her knees digging into my stomach as she tries to catch a view of Aaron. “Will you please get off me?” “I want to see what he looks like. I want to see these muscles you speak of.” Amanda reaches the window, but I yank on her body so she can’t sneak a peek. “Hey, stop that, I can’t see.” “Exactly. He’ll catch you looking, and I don’t want him thinking it’s me.” “Don’t be paranoid. He won’t think that. Now let me catch a glimpse.” Pushing down on my head, trying to climb over me, she reaches for the blinds, but I hold strong and grip her around the waist, using my legs to hold her down as well. “Stop it.” She swats at my head. “Just a little looksy.” “No, he’ll see you.” “He won’t.” “He will.” “He—” Knock, knock. We still, our heads snapping to the front door. “Is someone at the door?” Amanda whispers, one of her hands holding on to my ponytail. “That’s what a knock usually means,” I whisper back. “Is it him?” Oh hell. “I have no idea.” I hold still, trying not to move in case the person on the other side of the door can hear us. “Answer it,” Amanda scolds. “No.” “Why not?” “Because if it’s Aaron, I don’t want you anywhere near him. You’ll embarrass me, I know it.” Amanda scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She pushes off me, her hand palming my face for a brief second. “I’ll answer the door.” When she places one of her feet on the floor, I hold her in place. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not answering that door. Just be still, the person will go away.” Knock, knock. “You’re being rude,” Amanda says as she plows her elbow into my thigh, causing me to buckle over in pain. She frees herself from my grip and rushes to the door. Right before she opens it, she fluffs her hair. You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t even have to ask if it’s Aaron because that’s just my luck. Also, Amanda makes a low whistle sound when she opens the door. “Amanda?” Aaron’s voice floats into my house. “Aaron Walters, look . . . at . . . you.” I sit up just in time to see Amanda give him a very slow once-over. “You were right, Amelia, he has gotten sexier.” What? Jesus! I hop off the couch, limping ever so slightly from the dead leg Amanda gave me. “I didn’t say that.” Amanda waves her hand. “It was in the realm of that. Come in, come in. We need to catch up.” Amanda wraps her hand around Aaron’s arm and pulls him into the house. When she passes me, she winks and squeezes his arm while mouthing, “He’s huge.” I shut the door behind them and bang my head on it a few times before joining them in the living room. I knew Amanda’s visit was going to be interesting

She was shaking her head, her breath quickening. “I cannot marry you. Not you.” His smile faded. “Yet, you were prepared to wed the giant.” “Lord Tannenbrook is a friend. You are …” Waiting, he loosened his hold, let his palms discover the softness of freckled skin and settle beneath her elbows. “Yes? I am?” Her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “A devil.” His grin returned, growing as he witnessed the tiny shiver she attempted to stifle. Carefully, he let his fingers linger on her skin a moment longer before dropping his hands to his sides. She did not move, but swayed before him, her eyes riveted to his. “Most observant, Miss Lancaster. A devil, indeed. But that does not change my title. Nor your father’s leverage.

Let’s say I have cancer.” He opens his eyes to glare at me. “I don’t like this.” “Just hear me out. I have cancer, and there’s nothing more they can do for me.” He goes still, and for a moment I don’t even feel his heartbeat through his chest, like the thought of my heart stopping stopped his. “I don’t have much time left,” I whisper, letting him feel the possibility of me being gone. “But then someone discovers the cure for cancer.” He tips his mouth to the left and he traces the curves of my knees. “There’s just one catch.” I dip my head to capture his eyes. “The man who discovered the cure—he’s a white supremacist.” He looks back at me unblinkingly for a second before allowing himself one blink—just one. “Do you accept the cure for cancer?” “What good is this when—” “Answer the question. Do you accept the cure for cancer from a white supremacist to save my life?” “I’d accept the cure from the devil himself to save you. You know that.” He sighs. “It’s not the same.” “What’s the title of Dr. Hammond’s book?” He rolls his eyes. “You know the title, Bris.” “Humor me.” “Virus. The title of his book is Virus.” “And the point is that racism is a virus that’s constantly changing, constantly adapting, right?” I ask. “That it adapted when slavery was outlawed and when Jim Crow was eradicated and when segregation was legally struck down. It works its way into our systems, like our penal system, right? It’s a nasty bastard that just keeps morphing and surviving like a cockroach.” Now I have his attention. He’s stopped countering my every word, stopped protesting and thinking this is a useless exercise. He’s finally listening. “The person who finally cures cancer won’t be perfect,” I tell him. “They’ll just be the person who figured out the cure for cancer, and the people who live because of that won’t care that he cheated on his taxes or stepped out on his wife. They’ll care that he cured cancer. Dr. Hammond has a cure, at least for part of the problem. With his ideas and your resources and influence, imagine how much good you can do.” “He doesn’t think we should be together, thinks I’ve been societally conditioned to ‘acquire’ you.” Grip’s flinty look doesn’t dissuade me, even though that is some bullshit. “I bet there are more things you agree on than disagree.” I prop my elbows on his shoulders, leaning into him and persisting. “I bet when he gets to know me, I’ll go from being a ‘they’ to being Bristol. Isn’t that what you said months ago when you performed ‘Bruise’ for the Black and Blue Ball? That sometimes it takes us being around each other and getting to know each other, at least giving us the chance to go from being a category to who we really are? As individuals, who we really are?” He shakes his head, genuine humor apparent for the first time since his steps stuttered through our front door. “So, what?” A grin tilts his mouth. “You remember every word I say?” He really has no idea. “If I only get one life with you,” I mutter into his neck, “then, yes, I’m holding on to every moment and every word you say.” He pulls me away from the crook of his neck, studying my face. His eyes darken, emotion redolent in the air between us. “You’re so precious to me, Bristol,” he says, his voice the perfect blend of raw and reverent.

Bart gave her a little shove—speak of the devil. But she was still high on adrenaline and defended herself—with the back of her elbow applied to the front of his face. She felt a satisfying crunch. His screech was like a song she’d been dying to hear on the radio.

The way of the transgressor is hard. God made this world, but he didnt make it to suit everbody, did he? I dont believe he much had me in mind. Aye, said the old man. But where does a man come by his notions. What world's he seen that he liked better? I can think of better places and better ways. Can ye make it be? No. No. It's a mystery. A man's at odds to know his mind cause his mind is aught he has to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to. Rightly so. Best not to look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound in the way that God has set for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make a machine. And a machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a thousand years, no need to tend it. You believe that? I dont know. Believe that.

Gareth didn't need to open his eyes to know his brother was there, gazing down at him with his black stare that was severe enough to freeze the Devil in his lair of fire. And he didn't need to see Lucien's stark face to know what he would read there:  blatant disapproval. Fury. He felt Lucien's cool hand on his cheek. "Ah, Gareth," the duke said blandly, in a tone that didn't fool anyone in the room. "Another scrape you've got yourself into, I see. What is it this time, eh? No, let me guess. You were posing as a target and taking bets that none of your friends could hit you. Or perhaps you got so foxed that you fell from Crusader and impaled yourself on a fence? Do tell, dear boy. I have all night." "Go to hell, Luce." "I'm sure I will, but I'll have an explanation from you first." Bastard. Gareth refused to respond to the mocking taunts. Instead, he reached up, his fingers closing around Lucien's immaculate velvet sleeve. "Don't send her away, Luce. She's here. She needs us.... We owe it to Charles to take care of her and the baby." Footsteps came running down the hall, into the room. "Over here, Dr. Highworth!" Chilcot cried, suddenly. Lucien never moved. "Take care of whom, Gareth?" he inquired, with deadly menace. Weakly, Gareth turned his head on the pillow and looked up at his brother through a swirling fog of pain and alcohol. "Juliet Paige," he whispered, meeting Lucien's cool, veiled gaze. "The woman Charles was to marry ... she's here ... downstairs ... with his baby. Don't send her away, Lucien. I swear I'll kill you if you do." "My dear boy," Lucien murmured, with a chilling little smile, "I would not dream of it." But he had straightened up and was already moving toward the door. Gareth raised himself on one elbow even as the doctor tried to hold him down. "Lucien ... damn you, don't!" The duke kept walking. "Lucien!"  With the last of his strength, Gareth lunged from the bed, but the effort — and the Irish whiskey — did him in at last. As his feet hit the rug, his legs gave out beneath him, and he crashed heavily to the floor in a dead faint. Doctor, servants, and friends all rushed to his assistance. The duke never looked back.   ~~~~

Would you like something to eat?" "No." "A little water to drink, then?" "I do not want anything." "But you must be hungry . . . thirsty . . ." "Please, child.  Just leave me alone." He needed to grieve in privacy, to try to come to terms with what had happened to him, to think what to do next.  He needed to contact his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Maddison; he needed to get a letter off to Lucien in England; and oh, God, he needed Juliet.  Badly.  He dug his knuckles into his eyes to stop the sudden threat of tears.  Oh, so very, very badly — He wiped a hand over his face, and as he did, his elbow hit a tankard the girl, who was getting to her feet, was holding, sloshing its contents all down his chin and neck. Charles's temper, normally under as tight a control as everything else about him, exploded. "Plague take it, woman, just leave me the devil alone!  I am in torment enough without someone trying to nanny me!" "I'm only trying to help —" "Then go away and leave me be, damn you!" he roared, plowing his fingers into his hair and gathering great hunks of it in his fists.  "Go away, go away, go away!" Stunned silence.  And then he heard her get to her feet. "I'm sorry, Captain de Montforte.  I should have realized that you'd need time to come to terms with what's happened to you."  A pause.  "I'll leave this jug of hard cider next to you in case you get thirsty.  It's not as potent as rum, but maybe it'll let you escape from your troubles for a while."  Her voice had lost its sparkle, and Charles knew then — much to his own dismay and self-loathing — that she was a sensitive little thing beneath that cheerfulness, and that he'd hurt her feelings.  He suddenly felt like a monster, especially when her voice faltered and she said, "I'll be just across the room, peeling vegetables for supper . . . if you need anything, just call and I'll be right there." She

Please, stop," he heard her plead.  "You don't know what you're saying —" "But I know what I'm seeing.  Always got your silly head in the clouds, haven't you?  I'll bet you're sitting down here daydreaming, gazing at that useless creature and pretending he's your suitor!" "Ha!  That sure does explain why she's barely left his side, doesn't it?  You know you're scraping the bottom of the barrel when you have to start pretending someone who's too senseless to know any different is your lover, ha ha ha!" Charles had had enough.  He raised himself on one elbow.  "I beg your pardon?" Behind him came a shriek and a splintering crash as one of the two newcomers dropped something to the floor. "Heaven above, he spoke!" Charles kept his back toward them so they couldn't see his blindness.  "Yes, I believe I did," he said in his frostiest drawl.  "I also believe I heard you maligning this dear angel in a way she does not deserve." He could sense Amy's cringing embarrassment. The two females were speechless with shock. "Will you not apologize to her?" he asked with deadly softness. "Apologize?  To Amy?  Whatever for?" "Captain, please — my sisters, they . . . they don't know what they're saying." "The devil they don't.  You deserve an apology from these two termagants and I will see that you get one.

Your Highness? Prince Renaud?” This was the moment of truth. A look of confusion came over the man as he lay in her small bed, staring up at the cottage’s knotty pine ceiling. “How are you feeling?” “The pain is gone—I have to leave, I must—” He raised himself on his elbow. “Relax. Lie still for a while.” She caressed his arm. He stilled, staring at his healer with icy blue eyes. “Who are you? Some sort of witch? Where am I?” *He has Théodore’s face now that he’s grown. The spitting image of that devil. But his black hair—all mine. And yes, I knew he would use that word if he saw my powers…* “My name is Mathilde, Your Highness, and you’re in my cottage.” She blinked her tearing eyes and hardened her tone, speaking like a stern governess. “I saved you, that’s all I can say. You cannot escape justice from your brother if they find you alive. You didn’t succeed because I saved him as well.” “Half-brother, if you want to be precise! I’m the bastard whom no one cares a thing about!” A pained look of defeat crossed Renaud’s face. “Let me go!” He made a jerking move to raise himself from the small bed. Mathilde panicked. She clapped her hand on his forehead. “Dormez… go to sleep.” He slumped to a reclined position, his arm flopping to the side. His eyes glazed over and closed as he passed into a comatose slumber.

When Rostóv went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. Denísov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostóv’s face and said: “I am writing to her.” He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Rostóv the contents of his letter. “You see, my friend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We are children of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pure as on the first day of creation... Who’s that now? Send him to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrúshka, who went up to him not in the least abashed.

I’m not giving you a choice, little human. I told you I want to keep you, and I will be doing that anyway I like,” the Devil growls, capturing my elbow, forcing me to a stop. There’s a finality in his voice, a tone that brokers no argument, and I can’t help the tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t want to lose my soul,” I whisper, knowing I’m powerless to stop him in the grand scheme of things. I can bitch and moan, argue all I want, but ultimately, he’s the one with the power here, the control. (p. 56) If you ever thought of leaving me, of trying to get away, I would break every bone in your body to keep you. I would trap you here with me any way I could, and I would enjoy how I would punish you for trying to leave until you’re begging me to stay all over again.” (pp. 79-80)

It was the summer of 1956, and Buster Murdaugh was getting desperate. For years, he had been leading a double life. Since his father had died in the train crash, Buster had served as both solicitor of the Fourteenth Circuit and senior partner in the growing Murdaugh law firm. On the side, though, he was running South Carolina’s biggest bootlegging ring. He barely tried to hide it. A dozen law enforcement officers had been on his payroll over the years, especially those who worked in Colleton County, just east of Hampton, which was rural enough to make it easier to hide thousands of stills. No one had dared to challenge the conspiracy until the Justice Department sent agents to ferret out the stills and then charged Buster and dozens of others. Now, as the trial approached, Buster knew he was in trouble, because the case would be heard in federal court, where the Murdaugh name had no sway.

Cleaning the master bedroom one day, Gloria found a Ziploc bag of oxy taped beneath Alex’s side of the bed. She was too scared to show it to Maggie, fearing that her boss would suspect her of snooping and maybe fire her. She showed the bag to Paul, who called his grandfather. Maybe he would know what to do. Gloria tended to tread lightly in a family with such fraught dynamics. She understood that Alex and Maggie were unlikely to help her if she tried to rein in the boys.

Gloria had changed their diapers, picked up their dirty clothes, cleaned their bathrooms, and mopped their floors. Almost every night she cooked the family’s dinner before she drove the twenty-five miles back to the mobile home she shared with her own sons. When she returned the next morning, she would find the Murdaughs’ dishes still dirty, set aside wherever they’d been eating, often scattered around the living room in front of the TV. For all of these services, Alex and Maggie offered Gloria no health insurance or paid vacation time. They paid her $10 an hour, always in cash.

Walmart bought twenty acres of land on Carolina Avenue, including most of the block where Randolph Sr. first built a home a century earlier. But before construction began, Walmart realized its error. Hampton was what legal advocacy groups call “a judicial hellhole,” a place where hometown jurors leveled $1 million judgments against big corporations in cases that would get a $100,000 judgment anywhere else in the state. If Walmart opened its doors in Hampton County, the Murdaughs would take them to court for every slip-and-fall in the state. Ultimately, Walmart canceled construction and gave the land to the town for free.

The Murdaughs perpetuated the illusion that they were Hampton’s benefactors, fighting for neighbors who had nothing. But their legal chokehold chased away businesses, deprived people of jobs, kept doctors from opening a practice, and made it more expensive to raise families. Because the county’s tax base was so depleted, property tax rates rose far higher than in wealthier jurisdictions. Car insurance rates rose as well. The Murdaughs were thriving as the town around them sank.

When Paul grew especially drunk, he seemed to become someone else. His face grew red, his blue eyes grew as wide as half dollars, and he began to sway and curse. His friends dreaded the emergence of the alter ego they had come to call Timmy. Timmy was a horror show, obnoxious, aggressive, defiantly irresponsible, sure to hijack any evening. In Timmy, the most unpleasant strains of the Murdaugh men rose to the surface: the assumption of entitlement, the brutality barely veneered by charm, the conviction that the family reigned over everything around them. The clearest sign of Timmy’s arrival was that Paul would strip off his clothes for no reason, even if others were watching, then splay his fingers wide and spread his arms as though he were flying. He no longer spoke, only screamed.

He backed out of the room and down the hallway, keeping an eye on her door. He tried calling Morgan’s mother but she didn’t pick up. He’d keep trying. She’d answer eventually. Morgan asked the nurse to keep Mr. Alex out of her room. “I just know too much to know better,” she said. “He’s sketchy. He’s good at covering stuff up.” Officer Pritcher tapped on the doorframe. Morgan told him to come in and shut the door. “I don’t want anybody to hear what I am going to say.

Back at bed 10, Randolph kept watch at his grandson’s bedside. An ER technician came in to request a urine sample for a drug screen. She was young and pretty, and as she handed him the bottle, Paul leered. “Would you hold it for me?” he asked. The tech ignored him. When she came back, collected the container, and turned to walk away, he pointed at her behind. “Oh wow, that’s nice.” Randolph III had heard enough. “Shut the fuck up!” he told his grandson. The old man wandered out into the hallway, muttering “He’s drunker than Cooter Brown.

Phillip called Keith Altman, Miley’s dad. Mallory and Miley had been best friends almost since they learned to walk. Phillip asked Keith what was happening. “They’re looking for her,” Keith said. “No, God,” Phillip said. “Not my child.” The Beaches could not help noticing that none of the Murdaughs—not Paul, not his father—had shown them the common courtesy of a phone call. More striking, they had not been contacted by any of the half dozen law enforcement agencies working the crash. Beverly Cook, Anthony’s mom, had offered to give the Beaches’ numbers to an officer at the scene, but he had said thank you, no.

Out on the causeway, Mallory Beach’s father led the families and friends in prayer. Phillip asked them all to join hands, and then he told God it had been too long since Mallory disappeared beneath the surface of the creek for them to cling to any hope of her survival. Deep down, he said, he knew the rescue crews fanned out across the water were searching not for his daughter but for her body. Mallory’s spirit, he said, had risen from the marshes to join Jesus in heaven. Phillip prayed for the strength to accept that his baby was gone, and asked God to invest her death with meaning. “Let some greater good come out of this,” he said. “Something big.

Later that same day, Beverly’s son was standing with friends when he became vaguely aware of being watched. Anthony turned around to find Paul standing a few steps away, his red curls underneath a cap. “You know I love you, don’t you?” Paul said. “I love you, too,” Anthony said. “But you need to go.” Since the crash, Paul had exhibited signs of trying to make amends. He seemed to be drowning in guilt. He kept showing up at the causeway, staring awkwardly at his friends as though he wanted to say something but did not have the words. Phillip Beach had prayed with him, asking God to forgive Paul. Both of them had cried. Paul had texted Morgan and told her he was sorry for what he’d done. Morgan said she would pray for him and then had cut off communication. The others from the boat were now ignoring his texts, too. He was alone with his conscience.

That morning, the Beaches had gone to church and prayed for closure. When Renee arrived at the bridge, she saw a man wearing a jacket labeled Coroner and began to cry. Her daughter had been returned from the wilderness. The case could move forward. Renee was glad her lawyer was ready to fight. But she knew it was foolish to hope for justice. The Beaches were nobody. The Murdaughs were the law.

From her years as a court reporter, Beverly remembered Mark Tinsley as a bulldog who did not let go. Already, Tinsley had been busy pursuing the truth in the boat crash. He had sued Alex on behalf of Mallory’s parents. He had successfully pressured the Department of Natural Resources to remove the investigators who were close to the Murdaughs. Now he was uncovering other discrepancies in the case, demanding action. If anyone could bring Alex down, it was this guy.

Paul was treated like a wild animal,” he said. “If you let them be feral, they will be.” To Tinsley, it was clear that Paul’s recklessness had led directly to the death of Mallory Beach. But his parents’ indulgence had made the two of them even more culpable. He had collected photos and videos from social media that showed Paul swigging alcohol his parents had provided for him. In one video, Alex and Maggie watched as Paul stumbled through a game of beer pong. Another showed Alex sitting shirtless on the side of a boat while Morgan Doughty poured liquor down Paul’s throat. After the boat crash, Maggie had taken down many of the most shocking posts. But by then it was too late. Tinsley had already harvested the most damning photos and videos as evidence. If the case went to trial, he wanted the jury to see the ways Alex and Maggie had nurtured their son’s worst instincts, leading him to drunkenly crash one truck after another before finally driving the family’s boat into the bridge at Archers Creek.

Chief Alexander had no jurisdiction on this property, so it wasn’t clear why he was there. As a police officer, Alexander would have understood that a crowd would make it more difficult to protect evidence. Another complication was that so many of the officers were friends or acquaintances of the Murdaughs. These relationships were already affecting the processing of the scene. It wasn’t just Greg Alexander. It was the fire battalion chief who had covered the bodies, and the coroner who had been reluctant to use the rectal thermometer, and the sheriff who was briefing his friend, one of Alex’s law partners.

The case against Buster was compelling but thin, because the solicitor had been careful to put almost nothing on paper. The feds had a deputy who had seen Buster accept a cash bribe in a courthouse corridor. They had the former Hampton County sheriff, who had started out as Buster’s friend but had grown appalled by his corruption. But the first witness they called was Edith Freeman, who had written everything down.

Buster had proved that Murdaughs could fix juries, corrupt sheriffs and judges, cheat on their taxes, steal from clients, play both sides of the law, and define justice however they chose. By his own admission, he had also proved that a Murdaugh could arrange a murder and face no consequences.

Some who knew Alex, or believed they did, insisted that his addiction stories were exaggerated, a cover he used to distract attention from his real transgressions. They argue that the downfall began when Alex developed a habit of inventing legal expenses so he could make his clients pay for his family’s groceries, vacations, and private school tuition.

There, among the cypress trees and loblolly pines rising out of the ashes, the Murdaughs carved an isolated empire. For decades the family reigned as the region’s chief prosecutors—solicitors, they were called—as well as the Lowcountry’s most feared civil litigators, amassing power and wealth through a system of control that served as Alex’s true inheritance. Through word and example, his forebears had taught him to tamper with juries and lean on judges and call in favors from governors. Inside Hampton and the other four counties of the state’s Fourteenth Judicial Circuit, they decided right and wrong, defined the parameters of justice, and shifted those parameters at will.

Randolph entered politics, running for the office of the Fourteenth Circuit’s solicitor. A campaign ad proclaimed, “His reputation for being square and giving everyone a clean deal at all times and on every occasion insures the people of the circuit that if he is elected, they will have as their solicitor a competent and fearless officer, and one who cannot be influenced or intimidated by anyone or by [any] means, yet who at all times will be fair, just and impartial.

Randolph Sr. could no longer claim the moral high ground. It was understood that the solicitor had been part of the illicit arrangement. Even if he was unaware of the payoffs to the jurors, he could have hardly failed to notice their new houses. The exalted promise of his first campaign—to serve justice with faultless impartiality—was long abandoned.

From the start, it was clear that the case would be especially challenging. The troopers were hearing the same rumors that the case involved the Murdaughs—a legendary Hampton County force that had mastered the art of deflecting unwanted inquiries.

On the first day of their investigation, the troopers interviewed Stephen’s family. They learned that their victim had been leading an increasingly complicated life, taking nursing classes at a community college and frequently driving to Hilton Head to meet men he’d met on Craigslist. Sandy Smith didn’t flinch from the subject.

Dozens of leads pointed to the Murdaugh family. After Stephen’s parents described Randy Murdaugh’s unsettling behavior that first morning, the troopers asked the lawyer if what they’d heard was true. Randy acknowledged he had called Joel Smith that morning to express his condolences. But he denied he had offered to represent the family in their son’s death or that he asked them for the code for Stephen’s phone. He also said he had not visited the crime scene that day when Sandy drove by and he had not called her afterward. People kept telling the investigators that Randy was talking to possible witnesses, suggesting they pass along various leads to law enforcement.

A lieutenant even went to the sheriff’s office and offered to go through the file line by line to prove his case, but the deputy would not even touch the file. It wasn’t just the absence of shattered glass on the road, or the shoes that stayed on the victim’s feet, or that his body had been found more than a mile from his yellow Aveo. It was that the troopers had found no skid marks and not a single bit of plastic from a broken fender or side mirror. It was that the wallet was in the car, and not in the pocket of a young man supposedly headed for a gas station. “I can tell you this much,” the trooper said. “He didn’t get hit by no car.

With the criminal charges against Paul dropped in the boat case, Mark Tinsley tried to keep the pressure on SLED not to forget its investigation into Alex’s attempted cover-up in the emergency room. Connor Cook’s lawyer, Joe McCulloch—an old hand who knew a good stunt when he saw one—filed a hundred-page motion asking the judge in the boat crash case to let him take additional depositions from the DNR agents on the scene at Archers Creek. McCulloch understood that the judge would almost certainly not grant his motion. But he also knew that reporters were closely following every new document filed in the case. Even if his motion died in court, its contents would draw more attention to all the ways Alex had tried to hide his son’s responsibility for the crash.

A few weeks later, as the investigators dug deeper into the murder case, DNR released hundreds of pages of documents and several videos from the boat crash investigations. Internet sleuths scoured all of it, posting their theories about what had really happened on the night of the crash. They marked up photos of the boat, circling bloodstains they took as indications that Connor was on the passenger’s side at the time of the crash. They used Morgan Doughty’s and Connor Cook’s depositions to make a timeline of Paul’s previous drunken wrecks. They built string maps resembling the ones on the walls in TV cop shows, showing the relationships between the investigators and the Murdaughs. The revelations—about the family and the ways they hid their secrets—were piling up.

The week Maggie and Paul had been killed, the investigator had asked the firm repeatedly whether there was anything in Alex’s life, professionally or personally, that might make somebody want to harm his family. SLED had later interviewed Randy and John Marvin and asked if their brother was harboring any secrets, if he had any issues at work, any problems with drinking or drugs, any trouble at home. All of them—the law partners, Randy, and John Marvin—had assured the investigators that other than the tensions from the boat crash case, they knew of nothing out of the ordinary in Alex’s life.

That’s when it dawned on the detective why it was taking so long to make a case. All along, as he’d investigated Paul’s and Maggie’s murders, he had been struggling to get the truth from Alex. Now it was clear that others had been withholding key details. The law firm had been searching for the $792,000 since early June. Only hours before Paul and Maggie were gunned down, the firm’s CFO had confronted Alex over the missing check. Weeks later, as more evidence of Alex’s financial crimes was discovered, no one from the firm had shared that with SLED, either. They hadn’t told the authorities about Alex’s opioid habit. Any of these revelations would have helped Owen immensely. Even now, Alex’s brother and the other partner were quibbling over the definition of “missing.” At last Owen realized Alex was not the only one obscuring the truth.

As the news spread of Alex’s financial crimes and his lies about the roadside shooting, the Fourteenth Circuit solicitor’s office announced it was barring him from prosecuting cases. Two days later, the South Carolina Supreme Court suspended him from practicing law altogether. Gloria Satterfield’s sons filed a lawsuit against Alex, Russell Laffitte, and Cory Fleming, pointing out that not a penny of the millions of dollars in insurance payments for their mother’s death had ever been paid to them. Connor Cook sued both Alex and Buster, alleging that Alex and others had orchestrated a campaign to blame Connor for the crash.

She remained by the bedside, her hair tumbling over her breasts and down to the small of her back. Carrying the clothes to her and laying them on the bed, Westcliff let his gaze sweep over her. “How lovely you are,” he murmured. He touched her bare shoulders and let his fingers slide down to her elbows. “I’m sorry to have caused you pain,” he said softly. “It won’t be as difficult for you the next time. I don’t want you to fear it…or to fear me. I hope you’ll believe that I—” “Fear you?” she said without thinking. “Good God, I would never do that.” Easing her head back, Westcliff looked at her while a slow smile spread across his face. “No, you wouldn’t,” he agreed. “You’d spit in the devil’s eye if it suited you.

Clenching my fists, his subsequent snore emphasises my suspicions. He has been sleeping on the job. I put my hands on my hips and glide over to him. I have one intent in mind. Picking up the book next to his elbow, I slam it down on the table. There are definitely some perks to being able to manipulate objects. Adam’s reaction is priceless. “W…w….what? W…where? W…why?” He stammers, blinking frantically. One hand flies to his heart, which he clutches dramatically and he raises his other to his forehead, wiping his brow. When he realises who has disturbed him and what I have done, he scowls at me. “Why did you do that?” He snaps, rubbing his eyes. He yawns at the end, meaning that I definitely can’t take him seriously. “I was enjoying that dream.” At hearing his answer, I roll my eyes. Part of me is tempted to interrogate him, to find what he was dreaming about exactly. The other rational and sensible part wins, meaning that I thrust the book in his direction, winding him considerably. He throws me a sharp glare, which ends in a grimace. The book juts sharply into his ribs. “You should be reading NOT sleeping!” I retort, making sure that the book digs harder into his chest. I give it one last push. “So get going.

It was disorienting, listening to that disembodied voice as Alex rocked in his chair. It was like two versions of the same man, both coming apart. On the tape, he was the hysterical father and husband, begging for help for his wife and son, surrounded by blood. In the chair, he was the weeping defendant, refuting the prosecution’s insistence that he was the one who had spilled all that blood in the first place.

Even on an off day, Harpootlian was better than most lawyers on their best. He had prosecuted or defended more than fifty murder cases, honing a reputation as lovably gruff and mercurially brilliant. He was an attack dog in Democratic presidential primaries and in the state senate and loved nothing more than the gamesmanship afforded the man in the center of the ring, part of the reason why he’d stuck with the Murdaugh case even when his client ran short of money to pay him. He’d made no secret that in whatever movie was made from this case, he wanted to be played by Billy Bob Thornton.

Was it possible that Alex had actually been sipping a Capri Sun as he grabbed the guns and headed down to the kennels? The notion seemed almost too bizarre to contemplate—a father sipping a sweet children’s drink through a straw just before slaughtering his wife and son.

Maggie, with deepening color, went without hesitation to Mr. Riley’s elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing one corner, and tossing back her mane, while she said — “Oh, I’ll tell you what that means. It’s a dreadful picture, isn’t it? But I can’t help looking at it. That old woman in the water’s a witch — they’ve put her in to find out whether she’s a witch or no; and if she swims she’s a witch, and if she’s drowned — and killed, you know — she’s innocent, and not a witch, but only a poor silly old woman. But what good would it do her then, you know, when she was drowned? Only, I suppose, she’d go to heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing — oh, isn’t he ugly? — I’ll tell you what he is. He’s the Devil really“ (here Maggie’s voice became louder and more emphatic), “and not a right blacksmith; for the Devil takes the shape of wicked men, and walks about and sets people doing wicked things, and he’s oftener in the shape of a bad man than any other, because, you know, if people saw he was the Devil, and he roared at ’em, they’d run away, and he couldn’t make ’em do what he pleased.

This is a work of nonfiction, based on interviews conducted over several years with more than two hundred sources. Most sources spoke on the record, though some agreed to share information only on background. This held especially true for sources closest to the Murdaughs, given the sensitive nature of the case and the enduring influence of the family.

The book is also based on hospital records, newspaper archives, and thousands of pages of court filings, including non-public depositions and exhibits. No scenes or details were invented.

The author attended the six-week trial of Alex Murdaugh in Walterboro, South Carolina, and accompanied the jurors on their visit to Moselle, the hunting estate where Maggie and Paul Murdaugh were killed.

In the early weeks of the trial, Alex kept up appearances, covering his shackles with a folded blazer, freshening his breath with Tic Tacs, trading fist bumps with the bailiffs, arranging for his family to bring him a John Grisham novel so he’d have something to read in his holding cell. Even on trial for his life, he treated the courtroom as his duchy. He whispered to his lawyers and smiled at the jurors and stared down the prosecutors as though he could will them into silence.

Staring down at the prisoner in his shackles, Newman said he vividly remembered Alex standing poolside at the trial lawyer’s convention, just after Maggie and Paul were killed, seemingly having the time of his life, a friend to all. He said he could not reconcile the man he thought he knew with the man standing before him. Alex, he said, had become a void, unknowable even to himself. “You are empty.

Alex’s team was requesting a new trial on the grounds of alleged jury tampering by Becky Hill, Colleton County’s clerk of court. The defense alleged that Hill had coached jurors, many of whom she knew, to disregard Alex’s testimony. The primary witness against her was the Monkey Farm lady, who claimed that Hill had engineered her last-minute removal from the jury. Hill had denied the allegations, but her credibility was in question. She was the subject of a state ethics investigation related to a memoir she’d written about the trial. Her son, the county’s technology director, had been arrested two days before Thanksgiving on charges he’d tapped an administrator’s phone to suss out the case against his mother.

The visit to Moselle brought out visceral responses that were not available in the cold courtroom, the same way a song can spark a sense of longing and a smell can summon the past. No amount of words, no stack of crime scene pictures, could convey the feeling of the place. Asked later, almost to a person, everyone repeated the same word. It was the same one David Owen had used a year earlier. They felt a sense of heaviness, though they varied whether they said it was in the air or in the ground itself.

By the time the jury returned from Moselle, the sun had come back out. Bright light was streaming through the courtroom’s windows, but as the jurors filed back toward their seats, their expressions were subdued. Judge Newman called on Creighton Waters, and the prosecutor walked over to the jury rail. “It’s been a long trial, hasn’t it,” he said. They’d been in the courtroom together for six weeks, through seventy-five witnesses and more than eight hundred exhibits, from mundane bank records to gruesome autopsy photos. “Yes, it has,” one juror said.

Waters told the jury he was aware that the story he was telling was hard for most people to wrap their heads around, but that was because most people don’t think like Alex Murdaugh. The prosecutor asked the jury to remember his ticking through dozens of victims’ names, with Alex unable to recall a single time he sat down with any of them individually and lied to their face. “He couldn’t name one conversation, and didn’t want to talk about any of those individuals who trusted him as he looked you in the eye and asked you to do the same.” Waters walked the jury through the elements of the state’s case: motive, means, opportunity, and evidence of consciousness of guilt.

Investigators had bungled the physical evidence in astonishing ways, Griffin said. They’d ignored tire tracks in the wet grass. They’d failed to take impressions of a footprint in the feed room or test Maggie’s and Paul’s clothing for DNA. They didn’t protect the information on Maggie’s phone, so her location data the night of the murders got rewritten. And somehow, Griffin said, Agent Owen had missed an email from SLED’s own lab that Alex’s shirt showed no human blood.

Alex Murdaugh, the prosecutor said, was a person of singular prominence who had never been questioned about anything his entire life. When he stumbled into a series of bad land deals and was pinched for cash to fund his extravagant lifestyle, Waters argued, it had been easy enough to start stealing. Alex was addicted, yes, but his addiction was to money, and he stole millions of dollars over the course of a decade to maintain the illusion of his own image.

The real South, the old South, was rural and poor. The real South was Hampton County.

Randolph worked closely with every officer in the circuit. He was the lone prosecutor but effectively the chief detective, too, showing up at murder scenes and interviewing rape victims. Evidence gathering was rudimentary. Fingerprinting did not exist, leaving the solicitor to assess credibility and vet alibis.

By the time the trial was over, Alex Murdaugh had revealed himself as a hollow man, capable not just of annihilating his wife and son but of trying to pin the murders on others, defrauding his most vulnerable clients, betraying his law partners and his closest friends, deceiving even his family about almost every aspect of his life. The question that confounded so many was exactly how such a prosperous and respected citizen had come to lay ruin to the lives of everyone around him.

But like his forefathers, Alex was a Democrat and served a decade as the head of the local party, a key position in a predominantly Black community where Democrats still dominated politics. Securing his family’s support was the only way to become sheriff or senator or judge. Politicians who sought the Murdaughs’ blessing had to accept that they might someday be asked a favor in return. Some of those quid pro quos would be easy. Some would be hard.

All human beings are flawed and fragile, yes. But the longer Alex testified, the more the jurors wondered if they were in the presence of someone who existed outside expectation and restraint, beyond all boundaries. A man so practiced in pretending that he had become unknowable.

Many versed in the history of Hampton County, South Carolina, would point out that the seeds of the fall were planted by three previous generations, besotted with power and stained by bloodshed. Sudden exits had haunted the Murdaughs for more than a century: suspicious accidents, unusual deaths, deaths that were faked, deaths rumored to be murders, death during childbirth, death on the battlefield, death during a quiet night at home, death by musket and shotgun and rifle, death by drowning, death on a dark road, death by stairs. Long before Alex was born, lethal violence was woven into his family’s story, along with chicanery and infidelity and enough hubris for several Greek tragedies.

Alex had his secrets. So did his forefathers. Alex’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather could make secrets disappear, and they had taught Alex to embrace the family ethos: To live above the law, you must become the law.

You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but when God made man the devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. —Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

By the time Alex was signing the Pinckneys and the Plylers as clients, the firm employed experts in several relatively obscure types of product liability: fertilizer, medical equipment, fuel containers. Increasingly, the firm specialized in car crashes. The treads on certain Bridgestone tires had a tendency to separate at high speed. That was especially true with the tires that came standard on Ford Explorers, especially at high speed on hot asphalt, like that in the summertime

Throughout the South, the Murdaugh firm was the go-to place for filing lawsuits after these accidents. One of the partners had become a nationally recognized expert on tire safety and was commonly called into cases around the country because of his ability to explain complex engineering concepts in simple terms.

Paul was a source of constant stress. Maggie and Alex had never been able to control him, even when he was little. Some in town whispered that they’d barely tried. It had cost the family some friends over the years, parents who abandoned their desire to be close to the Murdaughs in order to keep their children away from Paul. He was kicked out of his public middle school, an achievement for a Murdaugh in a town where the family ran the school board.