Now she stared her sister in the eye. Raising the bloodstained finger in the air, then slowly but surely bringing it toward her own lips . . .

The result was immediately explosive.

“No! No, no, no. That’s mine!”

Shana was up, chair rocked back, zip ties shaking around her wrists.

“It’s not,” Adeline retorted, low and fast. Professional psychiatrist was gone. This was a dark-haired, dark-eyed wild woman who seemed intent on pushing her own sister to the brink. “I earned it. I helped him. It’s mine.”

“You bitch—”

“You’ve done nothing! Sitting there, smirking, pretending to know it all. I bet you don’t even remember our father; you were just a toddler, after all. Why do you think I ask so many questions? Because I know you’re lying, making it all up. You can claim to remember Harry all you want. But I have the files. I know the truth, Shana. I’ve always known the truth!”

“One hundred fifty-three!” Shana declared abruptly. Her gaze was locked on Adeline’s bloodstained finger, still suspended between them.

Phil had shoved back his chair slightly, hands braced on the table, as if preparing for fight or flight, except he wasn’t sure which.

“One hundred and fifty-three what?” Adeline demanded.

“You’re so smart, you figure it out!”

“No. This isn’t about me. It’s about you, Shana. It’s about you finally proving yourself. Thirty years you’ve been wasting away in here. Detective Phil wasn’t lying before. You’re smart. You’re capable. You could be someone, Shana, even behind bars. You could assist with a real murder investigation, do some good in the world. Maybe then you wouldn’t be my pity project. Maybe then I’d call you sister instead.”

“I know Daddy,” Shana spit out. “You do not know Daddy!”

“Prove it!”

The two sisters glared at each other. Phil swallowed slowly.

“You want me to be useful?” Shana suddenly drawled.

“I think you might find it an interesting change of pace.”

“Fine.” Shana smiled. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to be useful. I’m going to be the most useful person you know. In fact, I’m going to be so fucking useful that you will sign me out of this prison and take me home.”

“Not likely.”

“Oh, but it will happen. Mr. Detective Phil will even agree that you should do so.” Shana gestured with her bound hands toward Phil. “And, since I’ll be your sister and not your project, you’ll let me stay in your house, Adeline. You’ll even let me sleep in your bed. Forty-eight hours.” She nodded. “That’s what my usefulness is going to cost you. Forty-eight hours of me wearing your clothes, showering in your shower, living in your luxury high-rise. That will be the price of my usefulness.”

“No.”

Shana whispered: “One hundred fifty-three.”

“Shana—” Phil began.