The idea that Sam was Ugly J… the idea that she was just as crazy as Billy…

It can’t be. For one thing, she really seems to hate the guy. For another thing, I think she’s hot. And if I think she’s hot and it turns out she’s a psychopath, then what does that say about me? I’m totally not ready for that kind of therapy.

It’s not that he was in love with Jazz’s aunt. Puh-lease. Howie Gersten was horny and desperate and more than slightly clueless, but he wasn’t stupid. He had the hots for her and he figured that the fact that she knew this and hadn’t called him gross or a perv meant that maybe something could happen. Which would be great for Howie because he was a total virgin and sick of it to the tune of jerking off so much that he was worried he was going to cause some kind of penile trauma. Hemophilia extended to his entire body, after all—he’d bruised Li’l Howie plenty of times, which sucked. If sex was gonna hurt, he’d rather have someone else causing the pain.

What were the odds that Sam was involved in Billy’s craziness? That she was Ugly J? Most serial killers were men. So many that it was just the first natural assumption to make in any serial killer case. So, yeah, it just made sense to assume that Ugly J was a guy.

But what if Ugly J wasn’t necessarily a serial killer? What if Ugly J was just, like, an apprentice? An assistant? Howie didn’t think there was a career path planned out for sociopaths like Billy Dent, but Jazz’s dad had broken a lot of the typical “rules” for serial killers. Maybe it wasn’t all that crazy to think that he’d turned his sister into his helper.

Maybe he had even…

Ugh. Gross. Don’t think that, Howie.

Too late.

Great, now every time you want to fantasize about Sam, you’re gonna think about Billy Dent doing his own sister. Jeez.

Incest is best, put your sister to the test…. Some old bit of middle school vulgarity, hopping and skipping back from his memory. Double gross.

He pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. Craned his neck to look up at the stars. But the stars weren’t there. The night sky was almost perfectly smooth with clouds, the stars and the moon hidden as though they could not bear to see what came next. Howie couldn’t bear it, either.

It wasn’t that he was a coward. He didn’t like to think of himself as a coward, at least. But a lifetime of overprotective parents who had every reason to be overprotective… well, that had a way of worming into a guy’s consciousness. Most teenagers, Howie knew, thought they were indestructible. Howie desperately and devoutly wished he could believe that, but every damn time he woke up with a new bruise on his arm from rolling over in his sleep and bumping the nightstand… every time he went to the doctor for his latest desmopressin shot…

Every time he relived the night the Impressionist had nearly killed him with a swipe of a knife, a swipe that anyone else could have shaken off…

Every time he thought of these things, he reminded himself: It’s not cowardice, Howie. It’s just common sense.

But those words had started ringing hollow a long time ago. His best friend was in the biggest, scariest city in the country, hunting a lunatic with more than a dozen murders to his name. And maybe, just maybe, his own father. And Connie? She was on a plane—or maybe she’d landed by now—to that same place, determined to do whatever she could to help.

How can I do any less? How can I not handle this one damn thing? Just figure out if Sam is a bad guy or not. That’s all. Do it, you coward. Do it, you stupid, joking, horny, useless bleeder.

He stared at his cell phone for what felt like an eternity, flicking to Jazz’s number over and over. He desperately wanted to call his best friend, to get his advice on this. But Connie was right—Jazz was in deep enough already. The last thing he needed was Howie calling for advice on how to deal with Sam.

And besides… shouldn’t Howie be able to figure this out for himself? Being a hemophiliac didn’t mean his brain stopped working. Just his clotting factor.

When Howie had been younger and his parents had first explained his disease to him, they had done that typical thing all parents do: They’d tried to put the best possible face on it. “Abraham Lincoln was a hemophiliac,” they’d explained to him, “and look at what he accomplished. And Mother Teresa. And Richard Burton, the actor.”

Years later, when he was old enough and curious enough, Howie had investigated these claims. Turns out the actor dude was the only one confirmed to have hemophilia. Mother Teresa was just a rumor, and an unlikely one—women carried the gene for hemophilia, but rarely had the disease. And Lincoln? No one could prove it one way or the other.

Like with Genghis Khan, another historical figure rumored to be in the Howie Hemo Club. Whenever people tried to find a connection to historical figures, funny how they always managed to skip over guys like Genghis Khan.

During this same bout of research, Howie had discovered one other fact about his particular disease: Hemophiliacs tended to die young.

Which meant, maybe, that he should accomplish as much as possible while he still counted among the breathing.

Just cut the Gordian knot, Howie thought. It was one of his favorite bits of ancient history: Alexander the Great comes across this gigantic, complicated knot of rope and is told that whoever can untie it will rule the world. But no one has ever even come close because the knot is so friggin’ big and complex.

So Alexander just pulls out his sword and cuts the knot in half. Ta-da. No more knot.

Yeah, that works, he thought, and cranked the engine.

CHAPTER 51

It started raining as soon as they headed to the car.

It was a simple matter to find directions to U-STORE-IT-ALL online. They weren’t terribly far, but Morales refused to speed because if they were stopped, she would have to show her ID and then there would be a record of the two of them out to commit some sort of late-night skulduggery. Jazz champed at the bit in the passenger seat, strumming his fingers against the window.

“Calm down,” she told him. “At this time of night, the traffic’s on our side. GPS says we have clear roads all the way there. He’s got to take the subway and wait for a transfer. Plus, in this weather, I guarantee he’ll take a bus instead of walking from the subway, so he’ll have to wait for that, too.”

“We don’t know when he gave the cops the slip. He could be there already.”

“Being pissy with me won’t change that.”

“We need to stop off at a hardware store for a sec.”

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Just a little contingency planning.”

She pulled over for him to run into the first such store they saw and then they were back on the road right away. Soon Jazz saw a flickering sign for U-STORE-IT-ALL in the distance. He leaned forward as though he could add to the car’s momentum.

“I can’t flash my badge to get us in,” Morales told him. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Again, there could be no record of what they did here tonight. “Let me get us in.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You gonna break in?” The word again was unnecessary and unsaid.

“Not if I can help it. I’m going to try something else. Cut the lights and park on the street so that the guy in the booth can’t see you.”

The “guy” he referred to was a rent-a-cop sitting in a dimly lit booth framed out in what had to be bulletproof glass. Morales dutifully killed her lights and glided the car to a stop along the curb of the road. Ahead, a short driveway ran perpendicular to the street into a smallish parking lot jammed with rental vans, shielding them from the view of the booth. Beyond lay a chain-link fence ten feet tall with a sliding gate and a keypad. But Jazz only had eyes for the booth and the rent-a-cop.