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528 pages, Paperback
First published January 4, 2011






“I know you’re a good person. You didn’t let her kill me. I know you’re good. Please?”
Fancy looked him in his eyes until he stopped babbling and really focused on her, really saw her. When he was quiet she said:
“Daddy’s locked up, so we never see him. Madda had to start working twelve-hour shifts to support us, so we never see her, either. If Kit kills you, they’ll lock her up too, and then I won’t have anybody. That’s the only reason you’re alive. Because if I thought I could do it and not get busted, I’d kill you myself.”
Fancy looked away from the prowler’s horrified stare and finished threading the needle.
“I’m the Bonesaw Killer’s daughter,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Why would you ever think I was good?”
"Sorry about trying to kill you back there. Nothing personal."
"I know. You're like rottweilers--they protect you from burglars, but nothing protects you from them."
Silence, and then Fancy asked: "Do you know the real me?"
"You're fifteen. I don't know if there is a real you."
You know how when you stab people, it's like plugging into them? You feel their hearts beating; you feel their blood flowing. You see their struggle for life, and in that moment they start to seem real and like windup toys.
"I'm not innocent," said Fancy without thinking, moved by the shop owner's lurid confession. "Maybe that's why they hate us. For reminding them that innocence is just an illusion, and that if you scratch the surface, we're dark and maggoty all the way down to the bone. We're animals, and we're guilty — every one of us."