“Why did you kill Amy Starr?” she asked her in an almost-normal voice. “That’s a secret.” “Why? Why keep secrets now?” “Why keep secrets at all?” she said. “It’s a habit. Not just a human habit, either.” Something in Lucille’s face made her think of the woman she’d never met—of Luce West, not a dancer-turned-gangster-turned-wife-turned-ghoul. “I got hungry,” she admitted. “I needed a new face and a new body. It wasn’t personal. I didn’t know she had this much . . . baggage.”
