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Sheriff Tanner had all chipped in to get Jazz his first cell.
    “Shows what you know, smart guy: Cell phones don’t work in the subway. Are you taking Howie with you instead of me? Is that it? Two guys out in the big city?”
    “Ha! Yeah, right. Are you kidding? After he got stabbed, his mother won’t let him outside of a ten-mile radius without a bodyguard and a Kevlar vest. I’d have to kidnap him to get him to New York….” Jazz drifted off, stroking his jaw. “Hmm… kidnap him…”
    Coming from anyone else, it would be funny. A briefmoment of levity. But Jazz couldn’t quite pull it off, and Connie told him so. “Yeah, I know what you’re going for there, but I just got a chill down my spine.”
    “Really?” Jazz blinked. “That wasn’t funny?”
    “It’s all in the delivery. And you don’t have what it takes to pull off that kind of joke.” She pecked him on the lips, not wanting to tell him that for a moment there she’d actually been in fear for Howie’s life. “Come on, let’s get going. It’s already freezing in here.”
    “Does this mean you’ve given up trying to convince me you’re coming with me?”
    Connie thought for a moment and answered very carefully, very precisely. “Yes. It means I have given up trying to convince you.”
    But, she knew, that didn’t mean that she wasn’t going.

    That night, Connie toyed with her dinner at the Hall house, her appetite somewhere on a future flight with Jazz and Detective Hughes.
    “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 Connie. Jerome Hall believed that names held power, and he wanted his children to have all the advantages such names conferred. And so Connie was Conscience and her younger brother—nicknamed Whiz—was Wisdom.
    “I’m okay,” Connie lied without even thinking about it. “Just not hungry, I guess.”
    “She was with her
boyfriend
today,” Whiz said, almost singsonging it. “I saw the text on her phone. They have a hideout somewhere.”
    Connie bristled. Whiz was ten years old, and his favorite pastime these days, it seemed, was spying on his big sister. “You’re a little sneak,” she told him.
    Ignoring Connie, Whiz shoveled a forkful of ham and potatoes into his mouth. “They text all the time,” he went on, “now that
he
has a cell phone. Jasper Dent,” Whiz added helpfully, in case anyone didn’t already know.
    “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 gonna kick if you don’t mind me.”
    Connie held back a smirk. Her father was all talk. There had never been a spanking in the Hall house that she could remember. It was actually annoying that her father was the kindest, wisest man Connie knew… except for that special and pernicious blind spot he had toward her boyfriend.
    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 Connie’s dad still would have been against the relationship. The black/whitething. Racial memories that hadn’t yet been purged. Jerome Hall just couldn’t abide seeing his daughter like that.
    For her part, Connie wished someone would invent a drug that would make the world forget the past and get on with the future. Her love life was seriously being messed with, and she couldn’t take it any longer. And now she had before her a nearly impossible task: how to convince her parents to let her take the last few days of winter break and go to New York with Jazz. Jazz