“Hey!” the guy shouted. “Hey! Stay right there! I’m calling the cops! I’m serious!”

I know you’re serious, dumbass, Connie thought as she ran like hell for the cover of the woods. Why do you think I’m running?

She didn’t know the woods and back byways of Lobo’s Nod the way Jazz and Howie did, but Connie did have excellent coverage on her phone. Its GPS got her through the woods and into another housing development, where she paused to catch her breath and text Howie while hidden behind someone’s shed. Howie, fortunately, was done at Jazz’s and easily able to pick her up, though he did complain—of course—about the lost shovel and pickax.

He stopped complaining when Connie showed him the lockbox and its contents.

And the birth certificate.

“This is the big one,” she said. “This changes things.”

“Why? So, it’s Jazz’s birth certificate. Now we know he wasn’t born in Kenya. Big deal.”

She pointed to a specific portion of the birth certificate. Howie’s eyes widened immediately and his chest hitched as though he’d been shoved.

“Oh my God.” He stared incredulously where she pointed. “Is this for real?”

“Yeah.”

The birth certificate was completely normal and unassuming. Except for one thing.

The spot for FATHER.

It was blank.

“It shows his mom’s name,” Howie breathed, “but there’s nothing for his dad….”

“Which means,” Connie said, speaking the words out loud for the first time, “that Jazz might not be Billy’s son.”

Howie drove Connie home, still processing what she’d told him. “Looks like you lucked out,” he told her as they pulled up. There were no cars in her driveway.

“God, it feels like I’ve been gone for days,” she said. “But it’s just been a couple of hours.”

“Maybe your moms decided to stick around the mall. Run errands or something while your brother’s at the movies.”

“Maybe. I’m not gonna question some good luck.” She got out of the car. “You’re good to take it from here?”

“I’m not a complete screwup,” Howie said, offended. “I can handle my part. Just make sure you send it.”

She waggled her phone. “Already e-mailed. Let me know what happens. And hey—be careful.”

Howie backed out and headed back to the Dent house, doing his best to pay attention to the road, even though all he could really focus on was a notion that he’d never imagined possible: What if Jazz wasn’t Billy Dent’s son? What would that mean for his best friend? It seemed impossible, but that blank on the birth certificate… Why leave it blank if you knew who the father was? Had Jazz’s mom had an affair? Or maybe a one-night stand with a man she didn’t even know?

Another thought occurred to Howie, one that tightened his gut so much that he had to pull over for a moment until the tautness in his belly subsided: What if Billy Dent had… well, what if he had forced one of his male victims to rape his own wife? What if that’s how Jazz had been conceived?

Connie had wanted to call Jazz right away. To give what might be the best news of Jazz’s life. And Howie could understand that. Nothing would please him more than to say to Jazz, Hey, buddy, you know how you’re worried that being Billy’s kid means you’re, like, genetically predisposed to go psycho? Well, guess what? I have good news!

But he’d stopped Connie because… was it good news? No matter who the sperm donor was, Jazz had still been raised by William Cornelius Dent, which was bad no matter what. And would it really be any better to know that Billy wasn’t your dad… but that he’d been there for the conception, gun in hand? Howie shivered at the thought and nearly threw up on the steering wheel.

After settling his stomach and his nerves, he drove back to the Dent house. Gramma was running around in her underwear as Samantha chased her with a housedress, begging her to put some clothes on. Howie averted his eyes. Not out of propriety but just to avoid wrinkled old-person flesh. Guh-ross.

Upstairs, he used Jazz’s computer to check his e-mail. As promised, Connie had sent over a picture of the birth certificate. Howie printed it, folded it, and tucked it in his pocket, then went downstairs to help Sam wrangle Jazz’s grandmother.

Something in Sam’s presence brought out the child in Gramma, which made her a little easier than usual to handle, though Howie still found it beyond perturbing to see a septuagenarian running around the house, giggling, her hair tied up in pigtails, occasionally trying to pinch him. (His arms bore welts and bruises from where she’d managed to succeed.)

“Can I show you something?” he asked Sam, who was in the process of getting Gramma settled onto the sofa with what looked like a big photo album.

“Jazz warned me about you, Howie. Told me how to handle you. I’m not falling for that old trick,” Sam said. “I don’t want to hear your zipper if I say yes.”

“That’s a little obvious for me,” Howie sniffed. “I love you for your mind, anyway.”

Sam was partly bent over Gramma as she paged through the album, her rear sticking out in a very fetching way. She fixed Howie with an eyebrow-raised glance over her shoulder and straightened up, annoyed. “Really? Stop staring at my mind, then, kid.”

“Right.” He produced the birth certificate and flapped it in the air. “But I really do have something to show you.”

“Can you be a good girl and look at pictures for a little while?” Sam asked her mother, who gasped and pointed at a picture.

“Handsome man!” she crooned. “Handsome daddy!”

It was a picture of Billy’s father.

“Right. Handsome daddy.” A shudder seemed to run through Sam at the photo of her own father. “You see if you can find all the pictures of Daddy.”

“You’re my favorite sister,” Gramma said, and hugged Sam with a strength possessed only by the crazy.

“And you’re mine.” Sam disengaged herself and joined Howie in the kitchen, positioning herself, he noticed, so that she could keep an eye on Gramma through the doorway. “What have you got?”

Howie handed over the birth certificate. He explained how and where Connie had found it.

Sam scanned it quickly. “You think it’s Billy leading her around?” Her voice dipped when she spoke the name, and her eyes flicked to her mother. “Why would he want her to find this?”

“I don’t know. But did you notice the space for father is blank?”

“Yeah. Probably an oversight.”

“An oversight?” Howie struggled to keep his voice down. Gramma was peacefully paging through the album. No point getting her riled. “The guy who got away with killing over a hundred people didn’t make an oversight. There’s a reason it’s blank.”

“There could be a million reasons, not just one. Maybe at one point Billy might not have thought Jazz was his. He was pretty pissed when Janice got pregnant initially. I remember Mom telling me that. But he got over it. But I’m sure they had some reason.”

“Like what?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Because my brother was completely insane?”

“Was?”

“Is. You know what I mean.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the birth certificate dangling from her fingers like something dead or dying. “Howie, you have to promise me that you and Connie aren’t going to go poking around into this anymore. Let the cops handle it.”

“We’re trying to help Jazz. If it turns out he’s not Billy’s kid—”

“Then what? He’s going to suddenly be all better? His childhood will magically disappear in a puff of smoke? Please. There’s a better chance of you actually getting to first base with me.”

“I already got to first base with you.”

Sam tilted her head to one side. Excuse me? the motion said.