Game

“Something wrong, Conscience?” her father asked gently as she introduced her peas one by one to her untouched pile of mashed potatoes. Only her father ever used her full name. Everyone else, including her mother, called her Co

“I’m okay,” Co

“She was with her boyfriend today,” Whiz said, almost singsonging it. “I saw the text on her phone. They have a hideout somewhere.”

Co

Ignoring Co

“Whiz, I know your sister is still seeing that Dent boy. I don’t need you tattling on her.”

“But, Dad—”

“A butt is something you sit on and something I’m go

Co

Sure, she understood that Jazz wasn’t the ideal boyfriend. At least, not from a parent’s perspective. Raised by a serial killer—and not just any serial killer, really: the serial killer—Jazz had his share of issues, but she didn’t think his father’s sins should be held against him. In any event, Jazz could have been the son of the local saint and Co

For her part, Co

Only her parents could do that.

“I know there’s not much more I can do to stop you from seeing him,” her dad was saying, “because you’ll be eighteen soon and because I’ve always treated you like an adult. But I wish you would maybe cool it off a little.”

“Dad has a point,” Mom said, jumping in before Co

Co

So what would Jazz do in this situation? Easy: He would manipulate. Which, of course, was a polite word for lie.

And lying, she realized, is really just acting. And I’m good at acting.

Almost without realizing what she was doing, she started speaking, putting down her fork and focusing intently on her father, the tough one to persuade.

“Here’s the problem,” she said, the blanks in her plan filling themselves in as she spoke, her heart beating faster as she realized what she was doing. She was Billying her parents. So this is what that feels like. “Here’s the problem. We only have a few more days of break left, and I really want to spend them with Jazz”—she marked the tightening of her father’s expression, the deepening of the worry lines around her mother’s eyes—“but there’s a great orientation weekend at Columbia, too. I know it’s sort of early for me, but Columbia’s where I want to go and I could narrow down my application choices for the fall right now. But here’s the thing: I would have to leave tomorrow.” Before her parents could say anything, she rushed on. “Remember Larissa? She played Maria in that weird version of West Side Story I did that summer at drama camp in Charlotte? Well, she’s already in college at Columbia, and she’s the one who told me about it. It sounds amazing, and I could totally stay with her. But then”—she said it expertly, as though it were just occurring to her—“I wouldn’t see Jazz until school started up again.”

Her parents exchanged a glance.

“How much would this trip cost?” her father asked, and Co

“I can stay with Larissa for free. And you’ll always be able to reach me on my cell.” With a couple of texts, she could easily get Larissa to cover for her. And she figured Jazz would have a hotel room. Just the two of them… in a hotel room… The thought made her head spin and did things to her body she couldn’t enjoy right now. “I can probably fly standby since it’s last minute, and I can help pay for it—I have money from babysitting and Grampa’s Christmas check.”

Her father stroked his jaw and exchanged another look with her mother.

“She shouldn’t get to go to New York all on her own!” Whiz complained. “That’s not fair! I don’t get to go anywhere!”

Dad rolled his eyes in exasperation, and Co

So this was how Jazz felt. All the time. Every day.

Co

CHAPTER 8

“Can’t say as I like this idea,” G. William told Jazz, settling with a sigh into the chair behind his desk. The chair wheezed and squeaked with complaint, and Jazz wondered—as he always did—if he would be there on that inevitable day when the chair gave up entirely and dumped its occupant to the floor. Today was not that day, apparently.

“Co

“Then this is one of the few times I disagree with your girlfriend. Because I don’t think you should be going at all. You’re seventeen. You—”

“ ‘—should be thinking about college applications and getting into your girlfriend’s pants, not gallivantin’ all over God’s creation,’ ” Jazz quoted, finishing the riot act G. William read to him on a regular basis. “I know. I’ve heard it all before.”

“I’m not go

“The Hat-Dog Killer,” Jazz corrected him.

“All crazy people don’t think the same,” G. William went on. “It’s hubris to think otherwise in your case.”

“Hubris? Been hitting the word-a-day calendar, G. William?”

The sheriff cracked a smile for the first time since Jazz had walked into the office and told him of his intention to go to New York with Hughes. “That trick doesn’t work on me. The one where you insult someone, try to get them off their game, rattled? File that away as one way you can’t manipulate ol’ G. William.”