Kiss the Girls

“He was Priapus for the nineties. The difference between him and so many gutless modern men was that he acted on his natural impulses.”

Casanova links himself to Priapus—the Greek god of fertility, including male genitals. The comparison creates a juxtaposition between him and contemporary men and underscores Casanova’s view of himself as a hyper-masculine force, rejecting the supposed weakness of contemporary men. This passage reflects the novel’s exploration of Toxic Masculinity Versus Positive Masculinity, portraying Casanova as someone who believes that control, power, and violence are extensions of manhood. His self-aggrandizing thoughts reveal his delusion—he sees himself as superior when, in reality, his “natural impulses” are monstrous perversions of human intimacy.

“Ruskin reminded me a little of Michael Douglas in his dark-hero cop roles. He wore a coordinated outfit: green-and-tan tweed jacket, stonewashed jeans, yellow pocket T. He was about my height, which would make him six three or so, a little bigger than life. His longish brown hair was slicked back and razor-cut.”

Cross’s detailed physical description of Detective Nick Ruskin establishes a layer of dramatic irony and foreshadowing. Cross compares him to a “dark-hero cop,” yet Ruskin is a murderous predator, not heroic. At the same time, Ruskin’s body type and long hair provide clues that link him to Casanova. However, Ruskin is Casanova, making this description a deceptive red herring. His “bigger than life” presence suggests confidence and authority, traits that allow him to manipulate others. The slicked-back, razor-cut hair provides another subtle clue—Casanova is repeatedly associated with meticulous control, and his appearance, like his crimes, is carefully crafted to create a false impression.

“So who’s better at this game? he wanted to shout out to Dr. Cross. I know who you are. You don’t know dogshit about me. You never will.”

The motif of twinning relates to multiple pairs of characters, including Casanova and Cross. Casanova’s diction indicates that he’s competing with Cross. He shows Cross that he’s superior by committing heinous crimes that he believes Cross will never solve. His challenge to Cross suggests that he sees him not as a threat but as an opponent worthy of competition, fueling his ego. His assertion that Cross will “never” know him reflects his confidence in his disguise and the deceptive nature of his dual life. The arrogance in this passage is ultimately his downfall—by underestimating Cross, he invites the challenge that leads to his exposure.

“Since you’re already outside the multijurisdictional mess, and therefore immune to it, why don’t you keep it that way. Stay on the outside, and work directly with me.”

Kyle Craig’s technical diction, “multijurisdictional,” gives his character verisimilitude, using words that a real-life FBI agent might use. Craig also reinforces Cross’s independent characterization. Cross constantly comes across a singular person who’s too skilled to work within one agency or organization. By framing Cross as an outsider, Craig also positions him as uniquely capable of solving the case—untethered by bureaucratic red tape and restrictions. This creates an expectation that Cross will succeed where others fail, reinforcing his role as the novel’s lone-wolf detective archetype.

“One thing was certain: the Gentleman Caller had definitely given Beth Lieberman her first break at the Times. Her byline appeared on each of the widely read front-page features. The murderer had made her a star, too.”

Beth’s relationship to the Gentleman Caller reflects The Lurid Culture of Trauma in the US. Beth profits from the Gentleman Caller’s terrible crimes. He advances her career because people want to read his graphic diary entries, which she and her newspaper publish. This reflects the novel’s broader critique of media ethics—journalists, whether intentionally or not, can become complicit in glorifying violence. The passage also suggests a troubling parallel between Beth and the killer—both are using the murders for self-gain, albeit in vastly different ways.

“Casanova kissed his wife on the cheek and helped her with the packages. She was an elegant-looking woman, self-possessed […] She was effective in many ways. He had picked her with the greatest care.”

The narrative includes a variety of twists, and making Casanova a married man adds to his deceitful characterization. As Patterson doesn’t immediately identify the woman as his wife, Patterson adds to the surprise. Patterson also links the wife to the women Casanova abducts. As with the kidnapped women, Casanova carefully “picked” his wife. This selection process underscores his need for absolute control—not only over his victims but also within his public-facing life. By choosing a wife who enhances his disguise, Casanova strengthens the illusion of normalcy, making him even harder to catch.

“She had hurt him. Casanova was down.”

The two short sentences highlight The Resilience of Women. Kate fights Casanova and neutralizes him. Thus, Kate is victorious. More so, the abrupt sentences add to the drama, creating quick, rapid action. This passage highlights that Kate is not a passive victim but an active fighter. Her ability to injure Casanova subverts traditional horror/thriller tropes where female characters often fall into helplessness. By temporarily overpowering him, Kate momentarily strips Casanova of his control, proving that he is not invincible. This moment foreshadows his eventual defeat, showing that his victims are capable of resistance.

“He really didn’t have anyone to talk to, did he? […] Actually, Casanova did have someone to talk to. One person in the world.”

This passage reinforces the motif of twinning and the obsessive bond between Casanova and the Gentleman Caller. Their relationship is portrayed as intimate, even romanticized, creating an unsettling undertone. Casanova’s reliance on Rudolph suggests that his need for control and dominance over women doesn’t stem solely from sexual sadism but from a deeper psychological dependence. His true emotional bond isn’t with his wife or victims but with the only person who understands his depravity. Their relationship operates on a level beyond platonic or criminal—it’s an emotional and psychological twinning that excludes the rest of the world.

“I left those other women there. I couldn’t find them at first. Then I was so unbelievably confused. I left the others.”

Kate’s repetition of “left” reveals her inner turmoil—even though she saved herself, she sees it as a failure because she couldn’t save the others. This moment humanizes Kate beyond just being a fighter—she isn’t just physically strong, but she carries emotional weight, making her a fully realized character. Her drive to help the other women ultimately strengthens her resolve and leads to her playing a key role in Casanova’s downfall.

“He reveled in the secure feeling it gave him, the reassuring front-page news stories that told him he truly existed, that he wasn’t a twisted figment of his own imagination. The Gentleman was in control of an entire city.”

This passage highlights The Lurid Culture of Trauma in the US and how mass media fuels criminal notoriety. The Gentleman Caller’s sense of self is validated not by his actions alone but by the media’s attention. His crimes are not just about power over his victims but about power over an entire city’s fear. This reveals a disturbing cycle: Killers seek fame, and the media, whether intentionally or not, grants it to them. The passage also contrasts the Gentleman Caller with Casanova—unlike his counterpart, he craves recognition, making him more reckless and ultimately leading to his downfall.

“I already had one monster’s scalp on my belt. I hadn’t played according to the rules to get it. Kyle understood and respected results.”

Cross alludes to his experiences in the first book of the series, Along Came a Spider, referencing his previous case with Gary Soneji, reinforcing his pattern of operating outside the law. His choice of words—“monster’s scalp”—evokes a sense of hunting, suggesting that his pursuit of justice has become more personal and predatory. The phrase also indicates that Cross views his work as a battle against evil rather than just a job, which can be dangerous. His acknowledgment that he “hadn’t played according to the rules” suggests that he is willing to bend morality in his pursuit of justice, a tendency that escalates as the novel progresses.

“Dr. Rudolph was a plastic surgeon. As such, he could create and sculpt. Women depended on him. And…his patients all chose him.”

This passage blurs the line between medical professionalism and sadistic control. Rudolph’s ability to “create and sculpt” is a twisted mirror of his violent impulses—he sees his crimes as another form of artistry. The idea that “his patients all chose him” is also ironic—his kidnapped victims do not choose him at all, but in his mind, he is still the dominant force shaping women’s bodies. This connects to the discussion of objectification, as Rudolph’s professional life involves women trusting him with their appearances, but in his private life, he completely strips them of agency.

“Cosgrove wasn’t really in the mood for any of this. On the other hand, it was a big case. And if he did happen to catch the Gentleman Caller, he might just become a glory hound himself. He wanted Al Pacino to play him in the movie. Pacino did Spanish guys, right?”

Cosgrove’s reaction exemplifies The Lurid Culture of Trauma in the US, where law enforcement officers are sometimes more focused on fame than justice. Rather than being disturbed by the case, he’s preoccupied with the idea of celebrity, linking real-life horror to Hollywood spectacle. The mention of Al Pacino reinforces the theme of sensationalism, as true crime often blurs into entertainment. His comment about Pacino playing “Spanish guys” also hints at casual racial ignorance, adding another layer to the novel’s critique of American institutions.

“Some of them pointed at the Range Rover and thought it was a big joke. Just some major asshole from the Sur pulling a stunt, right? Some aging merry prankster high on tequila, or maybe even twenty-year-old acid.”

The reaction to Cross hanging onto the roof of the Gentleman Caller’s Range Rover reflects the normalization of outlandish behavior in the US. People are not surprised or shocked, but they’re relatively desensitized. Instead of recognizing the scene as a life-or-death struggle, bystanders interpret it as a reckless prank. This moment illustrates how a culture of excess and spectacle can blind people to real danger, reinforcing the novel’s critique of the obsession with chaos in the US.

“Naomi looked into the woman’s eyes and saw only defiance. No fear. That made her feel so good. Both of them had kept themselves together—somehow.”

This moment highlights The Resilience of Women and how strength can be contagious. Naomi finds hope in Kirsten’s defiance, demonstrating that survivors are not just victims but can inspire each other. The phrase “no fear” is particularly powerful, showing that even in captivity, the women refuse to be broken. Their perseverance foreshadows their eventual escape and survival.

“I had already learned that human monsters can live anywhere; that some of the clever ones chose ordinary all-American-looking houses. Just like the house I was examining now. The monsters are literally everywhere. There is an epidemic running out of control in America.”

Cross’s hyperbolic diction is a reflection of the US as a violent, sensationalized society. Terms like “monster,” “everywhere,” and “epidemic” convey an outsized problem with cruelty in the US. Put another way, the culture is overwhelmingly inhumane. His assertion that there is an “epidemic” of monsters underscores the novel’s theme that evil is not an anomaly but deeply embedded in society. The idea that “monsters are everywhere” suggests that criminals like Casanova are not just rare individuals but part of a larger pattern of unchecked violence. This passage also foreshadows the ultimate revelation that Casanova is not a shadowy outsider but a respected police officer, reinforcing the motif of deception.

“‘Her name is Suzanne Wellsley. Some of the students call her “Runaround Sue.” There’s a joke about Suzanne Wellsley throwing her underwear against the wall, and it sticks.’ ‘They could tell the same joke about Dr. Sachs.’”

The dialogue twists gendered norms and sexist expectations. Though Kate is a woman, she perpetuates sexism by sharing the joke about Wellsley. Cross, representing positive masculinity, undercuts the sexism, by applying the same standards to Sachs. Cross creates gender equality. By turning the joke on Sachs, Cross not only challenges double standards but also subtly critiques the way society tolerates predatory male behavior under the guise of charm or intellectualism. The scene emphasizes the novel’s broader critique of gender dynamics—how power imbalances are reinforced or challenged through language and perception.

“Hello, my name is Will Rudolph. I like your plan very much, but I don’t think it will work. Let me tell you why.”

Chapter 85 ends with Rudolph entering Naomi’s room and upending her “plan.” As with many other chapters, this chapter ends on a cliffhanger. The lack of resolution pushes the reader to continue to read. By addressing Naomi so directly, Rudolph asserts his dominance and psychological control. His calm, almost cordial tone contrasts with the horror of his actions, making him all the more chilling. This moment heightens the suspense by forcing Naomi into a state of helpless anticipation.

“He was absolutely powerless to stop me, I realized. He didn’t know how to fight back. He wasn’t very strong or athletic.”

As Cross attacks Sachs, he realizes that Sachs isn’t Casanova. Casanova has a strong, powerful characterization, while Sachs comes across as weak. The scene also reflects Cross’s lack of self-control; technically, he assaulted an innocent person. This moment forces Cross to confront his growing instability. While his instincts were correct about Sachs being suspicious, his physical aggression reveals how deeply personal the case has become for him. The novel suggests that obsession with justice can blur ethical boundaries, making heroes and villains alike susceptible to brutality.

“Casanova heard a noise behind him at the hospital room door. He turned—and smiled at the man. ‘I was just leaving, Alex,’ he said, and got up from the chair. ‘No change here. What a damn shame.’”

This eerie interaction between Casanova and Cross is a perfect example of dramatic irony. The reader knows that Casanova is taunting Cross to his face, but Cross is still unaware of his true identity. The casual, mocking tone in, “What a damn shame,” is telling—Casanova is playing a role, enjoying the performance of deception. This moment also emphasizes his arrogance—he is so confident in his disguise that he doesn’t fear being caught.

“‘You think loverboy is down here someplace? Casanova?’ ‘That’s the rumor going around.’”

As with many stories about police partners, Sampson and Cross have a close, lighthearted relationship. The humor juxtaposes the trauma, making the latter less difficult to consume. In the underground space, Sampson flippantly refers to the murderer as a “loverboy,” and Cross replies with a quip about rumors. This moment of dark humor not only provides a brief emotional reprieve but also reinforces Sampson and Cross’s unwavering bond. Their ability to joke in dire circumstances highlights their resilience and experience, demonstrating that they’ve learned to navigate horror without succumbing to despair.

“‘You found Auntie Scootch,’ Jannie whispered into my ear.”

Cross’s daughter advances Cross’s heroic characterization. Neither the FBI nor the police found Naomi (“Auntie Scootch”), but Cross did. Like a typical hero of the genre, Cross often works alone. Yet Cross had lots of help, including Sampson, Kate, and Louis Freed, who’s maps helped Sampson and Cross locate the concealed space. Jannie’s whisper also underscores the deeply personal stakes of the case—this is not just another victory for Cross as a detective but a rescue of someone his family loves. Her soft, emotional delivery contrasts with the intensity of the novel’s action, reinforcing the personal cost and relief tied to this moment.

“I was going to take him out tonight, no matter what. I had never done that before, not in all my time as a homicide detective in Washington. This time it was personal.”

Cross’s willful, stark dedication underpins his obsessiveness and loss of control. His choice of words—“take him out”—suggests an execution, not an arrest, emphasizing that this is no longer about justice but personal retribution. The phrase, “This time it was personal,” is often associated with revenge narratives, indicating that Cross is at risk of becoming as obsessive as the killers he hunts. His anger blinds him, as he later realizes that he was wrong about his target. This passage serves as a critical moment in Cross’s arc—his proximity to evil has nearly turned him into what he despises.