“It’s not that funny. It hurt.”

“Not that. I got paint on your face.”

“Well, then I’m not alone.”

He traced the slash on her face. They embraced again. Bosch knew they could talk later. For now he just held her and smelled her and looked over her shoulder to the brilliant blue of the bay. He thought of something the old man in the bed had told him. When you find the one that you think fits, then grab on for dear life. Bosch didn’t know if she was the one, but for the moment he held on with everything he had left.

Michael Connelly

Hieronymus Bosch