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“I’m getting used to the fact that you find me incredibly forgettable.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“I look down, trying to see my skin like she does. Underneath the soft, cerulean-blue glow, there are so many lines it looks like a roadmap. I’m so used to the ruts and puffy scars crisscrossing my arms that I forget about them sometimes. They’re the legacy of the questionable talent that’s kept me alive as often as it’s gotten me in trouble.

The story of my life is written in the wounds on my skin. I just wish other people could read the story, too. It’d save me a lot of explaining.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“You know the phrase ‘hard to getâ€�?â€� K.T. asks.

â€Ô¨±ð²¹³ó.â€�

“Forget hard to get. Chasing Mari would be like Mission: Impossible.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“After all the shit that went down with Calease, I hate sleeping the way some people hate airplanes. Or small, dark spaces. Or spiders. Or being on an airplane in a small, dark space filled with spiders.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“I tell myself I have time. But the itch forming along the back of my neck and across my shoulders says otherwise.

I hate this. It’s like I’m racing a clock ticking down to doomsday without knowing how much time I have left.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“Holy shit. I’m a Smurf.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“Don’t be stupider than you need to be, I remind myself. Remember Calease? The last glowing girl you talked to tried to kill you.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“Near my feet is a glowing archway. The light is white and shimmery, like iridescent glitter, and it’s so tall the top nearly brushes the ceiling. Inside, instead of seeing the cement wall of the basement, I’m looking at evenly spaced wooden pillars and a reed-mat floor. Standing on that mat is a woman with curves that would make a Playboy model jealous. She’s wearing a long, butter yellow dress, and her white hair hangs down to her waist. She looks like an angel when she smiles at me, holding out her hands.

“Hudson, come with me.� Her voice reminds me of the breeze rustling through the trees near the lake. Soft and subtle and calming. “Let me help you.�

Did I die? Maybe the scratch on my side got infected. Maybe I’ve been slowly bleeding to death from internal injuries for the past week. Who knows? If this is death, if she’s what’s waiting for me on the other side, then fuck it. I’m letting go.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“What in the seven levels of hell did my son see in this place?â€� Horace asks.

We’re standing on the street on Thursday morning, staring up at the house, after taking inventory of the place. From here, I can see five different spots where the brick needs to be repaired and pick out where shingles are missing on the sloped roof. The porch sags, and the windows are dingy. But if I let my eyes go out of focus and ignore all that, I can kinda picture what the place might look like after a little—never mind—a lot of TLC.

“It has good bones?� I suggest.

“It’s got old bones,� he mutters.

I smirk. “Yeah? So do you. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad.�

He smacks my arm, but he’s grinning. “Just wait till you get to be my age, and then tell me how good old bones are.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“In the last three months, I’ve started having creepy dreams that give me a glimpse of the future. Or sometimes a portal will open up in the middle of the night and something will try to kill me. There’s no way to know which one I’m gonna get hit with each day. It’s kinda like playing Russian roulette every night with a drunk who hates you.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“Horace’s eyes get wide, and he glances between me and the house. “Every time I think I got a grip on this crazy shit going on in your head, I realize I don’t know the half of it, do I?â€�

My eyes tracing the red trim of the house, I shake my head. “Not even close.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“Hudson looks at me, waiting for what I was trying to say, but no matter how many times I try, the words won’t come. My chest contracts, and panic knocks my thoughts into disarray faster than a tornado.

For years, I was silent by choice. Now, choking and straining and silently screaming, I actually know what it’s like to be silenced.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale

“When I look at Mari now, it’s like I see her in layers—the burning blonde with the ribbon over her mouth, the princess tearing apart a screwed-up tea party, the goddess wrapped in burning chains, and the girl who is somehow all those things yet isn’t aware of it. Who doesn’t even see the cliff she’s running toward at full speed.”
― Erica Cameron, Sing Sweet Nightingale