Game (Jasper Dent #2)(42)

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked.

“Do? Me? I didn’t do anything while you were gone.”

If Howie had been in an interrogation room, the cops would have charged him before the first word was out of his mouth. His poker face was nonexistent. He didn’t just look like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar; he looked like he’d been caught sticking his whole head in there.

“Dude! You hit on my aunt!”

“That depends on how you define ‘hit on.’ ”

“You totally hit on my aunt.”

“Was that wrong? Was I not supposed to do that?”

“You should think about what you just said. Think about it, Howie.”

“I’m just not seeing where I went wrong. For an older woman, she’s got a nice body, and she must moisturize like a mofo because her skin is—”

“Howie. She’s my aunt.”

“You get to have a super-hottie girlfriend. Why can’t I get a little action?”

“My aunt! What are you not getting here?”

“I’m not getting any—”

“Enough!” They were at the car by now. “Take me home so that I can try to scrub the idea of you and my aunt out of my brain.”

“Man, you grew up with a guy who taught you how to carve up the human body and used to show you Faces of Death for a bedtime story and you think the idea of me in bed with your aunt is gross?”

Jazz slammed the door. “Yes. And doesn’t that tell you something right there? Drive.”




They had left New York late in the evening, so by the time Howie dropped Jazz off at home, the sun was just beginning to burnish the horizon. Jazz stood on the front porch for a moment as Howie pulled away, staring at the dawning day. A part of him wanted to throw his suitcase in Billy’s old Jeep and just take off. It seemed easier, somehow. Easier than dealing with Connie’s dad, figuring out how to make up for his idiocy at the airport. Easier than dealing with the weirdness that now vibrated like a plucked harp string between him and Connie. Easier than living with Gramma, for sure. And easier than finally being face-to-face with the aunt he’d never known.

The front door opened and Samantha stood there with a coffee mug, dressed in a loose shirt and yoga pants. “Are you coming in or do you like the cold?” she asked.

Jazz shrugged. “I’m coming in.”

Inside, they sat at the kitchen table. The house felt small all of a sudden. It had been Jazz and Gramma for more than four years, ever since Billy went to prison. Now another presence made itself felt.

“She’s asleep,” Samantha said, in answer to his unasked question. “I’ve always been an early riser, though.”

Jazz sipped from the coffee cup she’d handed him and gazed across the table at her.

“So you’re my nephew,” she said sheepishly, offering him a lopsided grin. “Your friend—Howie—he calls you Jazz?”

“Yeah.”

“Which do you prefer? Jasper or Jazz?”

“I guess Jasper. From adults. And, uh, about Howie…”

Samantha made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. “Yeah, about Howie…”

“He’s totally harmless. He’s more than harmless—he’s completely… I’m just sorry. I didn’t know he would be a jackass around you. He doesn’t mean anything by it. I mean, you should hear the stuff he says to Connie. It’s just how he is. There’s no filter between his mouth and his brain.”

“And his hormones, from the sound of it.”

“Well, yeah. I know it’s weird.”

Samantha nodded. “Speaking of weird… I guess this”—she gestured between them—“is as weird for you as it is for me, huh?”

And then they both said, in the same instant: “You look like him.”

They didn’t have to say who “he” was. Jazz had never thought about his resemblance to his father, and he could tell from Samantha’s sudden obsession with studying her coffee mug that she hadn’t thought about hers, either.

Howie was right—Samantha looked younger than her years, which surprised Jazz. He’d’ve figured being Billy Dent’s sister would age her prematurely. But other than some gray, which she’d left uncolored to grace her Billy-colored hair, she looked ten years younger.

Of course, Billy also looked younger than forty-two. Maybe it was a Dent family trait.

Maybe we’re immortals. Maybe every time Billy kills someone, he sucks up their life force. Right, Jazz. And maybe Billy really is the god he always claimed to be.

“Look, if this is none of my business,” Samantha said, “just tell me. And God knows I’m not really in any position to help, but… you’re a kid. And Mom’s basically an invalid. Moneywise, are you two—”

“We’re all right,” Jazz lied. Every month was a struggle. The house was paid for, thank God, but there were still bills—utilities, Gramma’s medications, clothes, food…. There was Gramma’s Social Security and some kind of “death benefit” thing from Grampa, and Billy had actually stashed away some cash that the cops never found, but each month was still like balancing a chainsaw on his forehead. While it was running.