“A bright girl who once made a mistake. But you can’t go back, can you? Thirty years later, no one knows that better than you. What’s done is done. You can hate Donnie Johnson for dying on you. You can resent this overwhelming need you have to slice and dice human beings, but what’s done is done. And here you are. Thirty years wiser, and still going nowhere. No, you’re not trying to hurt yourself to escape the violence of prison, Shana. It’s the boredom that’s killing you.”

She smiled slyly. “Gonna entertain me, Mr. Detective Phil?”

He glanced at his watch. “For another twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Why only twenty minutes?”

“Because you’re hurt, Shana. You need your rest. I won’t interfere with that.”

Shana blinked, clearly perplexed by his gentle tone. Phil didn’t give her any time to recover.

“Tell me about your father.”

“What?”

“Your father. I’m told you two were very close.”

“No.” Abruptly, her face shuttered up. She sat back. “I won’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“It’s for her, isn’t it?” She gestured at Adeline, plastic zip ties rattling. “Dad, Dad, Dad, tell me about Dad. She’s the one who always wants to talk about him. Because she doesn’t remember. She was just a baby.”

“I don’t remember him,” Adeline agreed quietly, glancing for the first time at Phil. “I was only an infant. The few things I know come from memories Shana has shared with me.”

Shana sat back, clearly gloating.

Phil ignored her, focusing his attention on Adeline instead. The skin around his left thumb had started to bleed from his picking, but he didn’t seem to notice. “But you’ve researched your father, haven’t you?” he asked Adeline.

“Yes.”

“Did he have any close friends, known associates?”

Adeline pursed her lips, seemed to be considering the matter. “I could look it up for you. I have the old police reports—”

“What?” Shana sat forward.

“The police reports,” Adeline said, not even looking at her sister anymore but continuing to address Phil. “From Harry’s case file. I have them all. I could make you copies, Detective, if that’s quicker than accessing them through official routes.”

“That would be great.”

“Hey!” Shana said.

“Is there other information you’d like?” Adeline continued, eyes still on Phil. Then suddenly, “Oh my goodness, what happened to you?”

She reached over, raised Phil’s bleeding thumb.

“Oh, it’s just a hangnail. Never—”

Phil’s voice trailed off, as Adeline placed her index finger against the torn flesh and pressed hard. He stared at her pale finger with rapt fascination. As she slowly lifted it up, inspected his wound, then the tip of her carefully manicured nail . . .

“Oh dear,” Adeline murmured softly. “I got blood on my finger.”