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359 pages, Hardcover
First published March 6, 2012
"The killer was a badass. Talk about supreme confidence. Jazz couldn't help it; he sort of admired the guy.
People matter. People are real. People matter..."
"And there were the urges. The feelings. The memories. The things that he'd been taught and then forgotten, but that lurked somewhere in his brain's basement, ready to strike like stalkers in the night."
"Maybe it was a guy/girl thing.
He hoped that's all it was. What if it was a predator/prey thing? A human thing? What if he was losing his connection to her? God, don't let that be."
Struggling is what makes it worth doing, Billy said. Jazz closed his eyes, trying to chase away his father's voice, but it was no good.
It's not that I want to or don't want to. It's just...I can. I imagine it's like being a great runner. If you knew you could run really fast, wouldn't you? If you were stuck walking somewhere, wouldn't you want to let loose and run like hell? That's how I feel.
"Have the lambs stopped screaming, Clarice?" Howie said suddenly in a dead-on Hannibal Lecter impression.
Jazz knew killers. Billy had studied the serial killers of the past the way painters study the Renaissance masters. He learned from their mistakes. He obsessed over them. And he passed his knowledge down to his son. Lucky Jazz—those were the things he remembered from his childhood.
“Someday,” he murmured. “Someday I could snap. I’m my father’s son. It could happen. And when that day comes, when I take my first victim…it could even be you.”
Jazz had an advantage the average teen could never have: a sociopath’s ability to fake absolutely any emotion with utterly convincing authority.
People matter. People are real. People matter. He couldn’t convince himself.
Jazz spent a chunk of the day fantasizing about ways to kill his grandmother, plotting them and planning them in the most excruciating, gruesome detail his imagination would allow. It turned out his imagination allowed quite a bit. He spent the rest of the day convincing himself—over and over—not to do it.
For his part, Jazz knew he was handsome. It had nothing to do with looking in the mirror, which he rarely did. It had everything to do with the way the girls at school looked at him, the way they became satellites when he walked by, their orbits contorted by his own mysterious gravity. If attention could be measured like the Doppler effect, girls would show a massive blue shift in his presence. In the last year or so, he had even remarked the scrutiny of older women—teachers, cashiers at stores, the woman who delivered UPS packages to his house. What had once been a maternal flavor in their glances had taken on a lingering, cool sort of appraisal. He could almost hear them thinking, Not yet. But soon.
She’d come by again, and this time found Gramma in a better mood. Fried chicken—the crispier and greasier the better—was a great bribe. Smart enough to park her car down the road somewhere and walk so that Gramma wouldn’t hear the engine, look out the window, and have time to go for the shotgun. Smarter than Jazz had given her credit for.
He gazed at Jazz for an amount of time that would have intimidated or spooked most people. But Jazz wasn’t “most people.” He just stared back. He admitted a grudging respect for the fact that the warden didn’t back down. He’d been taught his stare by Dear Old Dad, and very few people could stand it for long without becoming flustered at the very least.
“You know I could kill you, right?” he said quietly, his voice measured and calm. “I could do it right now. Right now. And there’s nothing you could do to stop me. Even though I’ve told you.”
She went still against him. “But you won’t.”
He exploded. “How do you know that?” He pushed her away. “How? Tell me! Jesus!”