“And the Axeman of New Orleans,” adds Mom brightly. Jacob shoots me a look. “I really hope axe is a kind of instrument and not—” “He went around chopping people up,” Mom adds. Jacob sighs. “Of course he did.” “Back in 1918, he terrorized the city,” says Dad. “No one felt safe,” says Mom. They’re sliding into that TV show rhythm, even though there are no cameras, just me and Jacob, hanging on the edge of their words. “He was a serial killer,” says Mom, “but he loved jazz, so he sent a letter to the cops and said he wouldn’t strike any house that had a full band playing in it. So for weeks,
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