Best Patricia Highsmith Novels & Stories

Patricia. My heart still stumbled at the name, at the sheer absurdity of it. At the danger that it posed to me and my safety, my sanity. Yet there she was, sitting across from me like a queen who had claimed her throne and dared anyone to challenge her. Patricia’s lips curved into that smile I had come to dread, the kind that wasn’t a smile at all but a sharpened blade dressed in silk. She sat opposite me, still in the spot she had been sitting with Isaac, legs elegantly crossed, her diamond-studded hand draped with calculated poise over the armrest. Her smile was soft, but I couldn't be deceived by the false warmth in her deceptive smile, because it wasn’t the warmth of courtesy, it was the

But something in her needed to know. “Okay.” The coffee shop was small and crowded. Patricia Moss found her exactly at noon. She was a woman in her early thirties. She sat down without asking permission. “Thank you for coming,” Patricia said. “Why leave me a note instead of just calling?” “Because I wanted to be careful.” Patricia leaned forward. “The couple you’re being considered for, the Crosses—they’re not who they claim to be.” “What do you mean?”

Annelise felt like she’d been punched. “Oh I heard she’s already working very closely with Weston Thayer,” Patricia’s voice dropped to that conspiratorial tone that meant the really nasty part was coming. “Planning his wedding to that Bennington girl. Very…cozy arrangement from what my Alcott tells me. Makes you wonder what exactly she’s offering in exchange for those contracts. History repeating itself, perhaps?” “Patricia, you’re terrible,” someone said, but they were laughing.

"I found her notebooks." Patricia was quiet for exactly two seconds. "Don't touch anything else. Don't photograph them yourself. I'm sending someone in the next thirty minutes." "Patricia." Mia's voice was steady. Final. "She planned all of it. She wrote it down." Another silence. Longer. "Stay where you are," Patricia said. And for the first time since she'd taken the case, she sounded like something other than calm. She sounded like a woman who had just drawn a very good hand.

She called Patricia Reeves at eight o'clock. Patricia Reeves was sixty-two years old, a founding partner at Reeves & Carmichael, and the best family law attorney in Manhattan by a margin that was not even contested by her competitors. She had also been Zara's mentor for the first three years of her career, before Zara moved into litigation and stopped needing a formal guide. They had stayed in contact. They had lunch twice a year. Patricia sent flowers when Zara made partner. "I need to retain you," Zara said when Patricia answered.

He was still mingling, unaware of how close he was to the end of his freedom. As we reached the bar, she leaned against the counter, her eyes on me. “So, what is really going on, Robert and don't give me that bullshit ?” I met her gaze, keeping my expression neutral. “What do you mean?” “You are here, alone, not watching the race, and now you are suddenly interested in small talk. Either you are suffering from some sort of illness or you are someone else who looks like my boss.” Patricia was too observant for her own good. She had always been able to read me in ways others could not. It was both a strength and a liability.

“You wanted her gone so you could have Isaac all to yourself, right? Were you that mad she was sharing your fuckboy?” She stared at me, completely thrown off. Confusion swam in her eyes, but I wasn’t buying it. “You got tired of sharing him, didn’t you?” I pressed harder. Patricia shot up from the couch. “I could be a lot of things, but I am not a murderer!” she yelled, her voice cracking at the top. “Oh, really?” I let out a mocking laugh. “Then what do you call someone who poisons her daughter’s ex-best friend?”

The books are organized by color, not author or subject, and I pull one out at random, turning it over in my hands before sliding it back into its slot. I’m returning it to the shelf when I hear heels clicking on marble. “Mrs. Cross!” Patricia’s voice echoes before she appears. She sweeps into the library carrying garment bags draped over one forearm and a tablet tucked under the other, moving with the brisk confidence of someone who has never once been late to anything in her life. Her suit is immaculate—pressed, tailored, probably steamed that very morning. Her hair is pulled back severely, pinned so tightly at her nape it looks like it would hurt to turn her head quickly. Not a strand dar

Patricia sneered, her footsteps halting abruptly as she rounded the corner. "Please play along," I whispered urgently into Simon's ear. He blinked once, subtly nodding in confused agreement. "Pattie! You're just arriving? Welcome back," I forced a bright smile, pulling away from Simon as if caught in a lover's moment. "Why were you two kissing...?" she demanded, eyes squinting suspiciously, scanning us both. I stayed silent, lowering my gaze demurely, letting her imagination run wild. If there was one thing I knew about Patricia, it was her crippling trust issues, paranoia that made her see threats everywhere.

Public information had a way of looking harmless until the right person arranged it. Patricia Lang appeared in several photographs with the same calm expression: neat gray-blond hair, simple jewelry, polite smile, hands folded at her waist or resting lightly on the arm of whoever stood beside her. She did not look dramatic. She did not look sinister. She looked like the sort of woman people trusted with committee minutes, recommendation letters, and scholarship dinners. That made her worse in Leah’s eyes. Obvious danger shouted. Useful danger smiled politely and remembered everyone’s name. Near Olivia, Patricia looked almost kind.