James Lee Burke Novels & Stories

It made him wonder if Nate wasn't as involved with his father as he thought, because there's no way his father would ask him to come here without letting him know what it was about, unless of course Greg didn't tell him because he would oppose to coming. It was all so confusing to Spade and he was itching to really find out what kind of person Nate was. To see Nate for who he truly was, to see what was really behind those brown beautiful eyes that always left him speechless and craving for something. He sighed out as his eyes moved away from Nate and landed on the man on the podium. "....and I say thank you all for coming out tonight for this wonderful event" Liam finished with a smile on hi

"I guess we shouldn't have come. We just didn't want you to stay angry at us…" James said nothing. He felt that the woman in front of him had become more and more unfamiliar. She no longer resembled the beautiful first love he remembered. Suddenly, Liam shoved James aside and made his way into the house by squeezing past him. Seeing the luxurious living room, he looked around enviously. "This place is amazing! Come in, Mommy!" he called out. After he walked around the room, Liam's eyes were filled with jealousy. "Hmph! So that homewrecker and her bastard daughter got to live in such a nice place!"

"That day, I saw Jason's father jump into the river to save a little girl. A relative overseas had just lent my family a camcorder, and I was excited to play with it, so I recorded it." Tears streamed down his face. "But my family moved away the next day, and I forgot about that tape. I... I didn't know the Cole family suffered so much afterward. If I'd known, I would have brought the tape out long ago!" Another middle-aged man walked out. He staggered forward. He turned to me and my mother, his face wet with tears. "I was wrong! I committed a sin!" He cried as he spoke. "Back then, Adrian's father gave me money and made me lie as a witness. I said Thomas Cole had lost money to us gambling,

Something bad. “Hale?” I whisper. His voice is low. Flat. “This isn’t Burke.” “You said that already. What does that mean?” He finally turns toward me. There’s something strange in his eyes—not panic, but something very close. Not fear. Strategy. Calculations racing ahead of words. “Burke doesn’t mark his shipments. He doesn’t brand what he hides. That’s not his style.” “Then who does?” A pause. Then he answers. “People who don’t care if they’re seen. People who don’t need to hide.”