She checked herself in the mirror. Not that it mattered. She would be bundled in a heavy coat when she went outside. And she didn’t know anyone in Brooklyn, anyway.

Mirror Connie looked pretty damn good. She pouted, then puckered up and blew herself a kiss. And then felt like a stupid little girl.

Had she been unfair to Jazz the night before? Was she still being unfair to him? He’d made it pretty clear that he wasn’t ready for the big step to Real Sex. What kind of girlfriend was she if she couldn’t understand and respect that?

Then again… maybe he was the one being unfair to her. All kinds of people had traumas in their pasts. Not all of them were completely unable to connect with other people. And Jazz had proven many, many times in the past that he had no problem making out—they’d kissed, touched, probed, and groped each other in every way imaginable. He had drawn a line he refused to cross for no good reason and she was on the other side of that line, begging him to cross over.

Why couldn’t he—

And just then, the TV, burbling in the background, said her boyfriend’s name.

Connie spun around, reaching for the remote so that she could turn up the volume.

“—son of Billy Dent,” a very, very blow-dried anchorman said. “Needless to say, this news comes as something of a shock to New Yorkers, prompting questions as to the possible involvement of Billy Dent in the Hat-Dog murders.”

You moron. Hat-Dog’s been killing since before Billy broke out of jail.

“In the meantime, police sources tell WPIX that Jasper Dent will be arriving at the Seventy-sixth Precinct in Carroll Gardens soon to discuss the case. We expect a press conference with task-force commander Captain Niles Montgomery later today to brief us. We’ll have details of that press conference on our website, of course, along with a wrap-up and commentary tonight at five.”

Connie turned off the TV—news anchors had a bizarre, sing-song way of talking, a constant up-and-down of weird word emphasis that nauseated her. She could only take it for roughly the length of time it took her to get dressed each morning.

So, Jazz was safe. With the NYPD. As usual, no one could be bothered to fill her in, and she figured she wouldn’t hear from him until he was done. Odds were it would take him all day. What should she do in the meantime?

Come on, Connie. You’re in the coolest city in the world for the day.

Just then, her cell phone burbled for her attention. It was her father.

“Hi, Daddy!” she chirped, making every effort to sound like a girl who had not skipped off to New York with her boyfriend and lied about it to her parents. The only problem was that Connie didn’t know what that girl would sound like.

“Something you’d like to tell me?” her father asked without preamble or greeting. That was how her father operated: He always gave his kids an opportunity to come clean. Connie had never noticed a difference in the punishment, though, so she usually gambled on trying to get away with it.

“New York is amazing,” Connie effused, trying for “breathless and overwhelmed.” “Last night we went to Rockefeller Center, which is so much cooler than on TV—”

“I was reading the paper today, and guess what it says?”

“Well,” Connie said, “I bet it doesn’t say anything about the awesome Chinese food I had for dinner last night.”

“It says that Jasper is in New York. Right now.”

Ouch. Of course. That made sense. The news probably leaked from Lobo’s Nod to New York, not the other way around. “Really?” She aimed for surprised, but came closer to “oh, busted.” Cleared her throat for a second try. “Really? That’s a weird coincidence.”

“I’m sure,” her father said drily. “And right now, you’re where?”

“At Larissa’s place.”

“Let me talk to her, then.”

Double ouch.

“She’s in the shower.”

“I can wait.”

“Dad…”

“Seriously. I have all kinds of rollover minutes. I can wait.”

Damn.

“Okay, Dad. I’m not with Larissa. I’m at a hotel in Brooklyn.”

“With him.” Her father’s anger was palpable, even over the phone.

“No. I’m not with him. Honest.” It wasn’t a lie. Present tense was your friend when it came to lying.

“Do you really think I’m going to believe anything you tell me? This isn’t like you got caught doing something and lied to avoid punishment, Conscience. This was premeditated. You set this up. You set me up. You planned this and then you executed your plan, a plan based on deception and dishonesty. So explain to me why I should believe anything you say. Go on. Explain.”

“Because I’m telling the truth. He’s not here. He’s with the police.”

“That’s where he belongs.”

Connie considered explaining that Jazz wasn’t under arrest—not really—but figured she’d just let it go. “Dad, the whole reason we’re here—”

“The paper says—”

“It’s Doug Weathers, Dad. Jesus, you can’t believe anything that guy—”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Conscience. You’re in enough trouble with me as it is already. And I don’t care why you’re there. What I care about is this: My child lied to me, deceived me, in order to run away with her boyfriend. That’s what I care about. I want you home five minutes ago, do you understand?”

“I can’t—I have a plane ticket. I won’t be home for—”

“Give me your confirmation number. I’ll call the airline and see about getting it changed.”

“But, Dad—”

“What? What are you going to say? Are you going to tell me that this is unfair? That I’m inconveniencing you? That you can be trusted to handle this yourself?”

She’d been planning on saying pretty much all of that.

“Well, let me tell you something.” The rage in her father’s voice had grown more and more potent as he spoke, as though each word stoked a fire in his heart. “Let me tell you something: Fairness is for people who don’t lie. Convenience is for people who don’t lie. And trust is sure as hell for people who don’t lie.”

Connie dropped onto the bed Jazz had slept in. “I’m seventeen,” she said quietly. “You can’t control me for—”

“I can control you for five more months. And if it means protecting you from the world and that boy and yourself, I will damn sure control you right up to midnight on your birthday. Do you understand?”

She turned to her left. Cheek to Jazz’s pillow. She could smell him. Not his deodorant or his shampoo—him. The pure, unadulterated scent of him.

“I love him, Daddy.” The simple, unvarnished truth.

“I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you to hear that I. Don’t. Care.”

There was nothing else she could do. Her father wouldn’t be persuaded by logic and he wouldn’t be persuaded by love. At least she’d tried.

Connie surrendered. She gave her father the confirmation number.

CHAPTER 17

In a depressingly short amount of time, Connie’s father called back to let her know that he had managed to get her a seat on a flight out of LaGuardia late that night. It had cost him $150 more than the cost of the original ticket, a sum he made sure she understood would be deducted piecemeal from her future allowances and summer jobs until paid back.

An hour went by, and Jazz still wasn’t back from the police station, though he did text to say nothing more helpful than that he thought he would be a while. Connie had hours to kill and nothing to do. She couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up in the hotel room all day by herself, with only the TV and its pathetic selection of cable channels for company. Even through the grayish window, Brooklyn looked hard and bright in the winter sunshine. Despite the bundled pedestrians, she could hardly believe it was cold out at all, so warm was the sunlight.