First Sentence: We’ll say this all began just outside of Chicago, in late summer on a residential street dead-ending in a wall.
Back of the book:
Tommie had a little gap between her teeth, her eyes were wide set, and she had one of those noses with perfectly round nostrils.
‘I’m supposed to ask you for a cigarette.’
This ugly kid before Lamb was obviously the brunt of a joke. Stupid. And reckless.
Had they any idea who he was? Why he was standing alone in a black suit? What kind of heart, if any, hung inside him?
He took a pull on his cigarette and put it out on the bottom of his beautifully polished shoe.
Last Sentence: He couldn’t hear her, could only see her shrinking pale white face twisting in anguish and bobbing unevenly behind him in the rearview mirror.