Every night when I come home from work I ask if anyone brought in the mail, which, if you know me, translates into: Were there any book packages for me?
Yes, they brought in the mail, and there was nothing interesting, just junk, just bills, they always tell me, which actually means: We take no interest in the stinkin' book packages of which there are too menny.
So I don't know when my latest package from the Book Depository actually arrived because they carelessly segregated it from the rest of the mail in the kitchen and I found it this morning in the shadows of the family room.
It contained Tana French's Faithful Place.
Two chapters in, I know what I'll be doing this weekend.
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