“For starters, the whole removal of skin. And not just because Harry Day was known for keeping such things as trophies, but because I know what Shana did to my cousin. Come on, fourteen-year-old boy. Of course I had to sneak in my uncle’s study and look at the photos. I mean . . .” Sgarzi’s voice broke off. For all his bravado, thirty years later, his composure grew strained. “When I read the details of these latest two murders in the paper, first image that flashed through my mind was the picture of Donnie’s arm, his stomach. I . . . I knew what had been done to those women. Because I’d seen it before. In the photos of my cousin’s body. Tell me I’m wrong, Detectives. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”

D.D. and Phil couldn’t do it. For once, they were the ones to glance away. Because both had reviewed Shana’s thirty-year-old handiwork in the past twenty-four hours, and Charlie Sgarzi was right. The parallels between what she’d done to her victim, what her father had done to his victims and what the Rose Killer was doing now . . .

“Shana Day didn’t kill those women,” Sgarzi continued now. “And obviously, Harry Day didn’t kill those women. But if skinning is the signature mark of the crime as well as the calling card of both father and daughter . . .”

Sgarzi paused. D.D. already knew what he was going to say next.

“Well, there’s one family member left. . . .”

Chapter 20

MY FIRST ISSUE WAS properly disposing of the formaldehyde solution.

After the interview with Shana, I’d called my receptionist and told her to cancel my remaining appointments for the week. Pessimistic? Preparing for the worst? My adoptive father had been right; just because I didn’t feel pain didn’t mean my family couldn’t hurt me.

My sister knew something. The interview request, the Boston detective’s questions, none of them surprised her. That was my biggest impression from the morning. The police could pat themselves on the back, even congratulate me for getting Shana to “volunteer” the mystery number 153. But I knew my sister better than that. This was a game for her. And she had willingly shown up to play, which already told me it was her match after all. We were the ones catching up.

I’d been honest; I didn’t know what 153 meant. But Shana did, and if she said we would be letting her out of prison in the morning, at which time she’d be staying in my condo, sleeping in my bed and wearing my clothes, I believed her. The prediction was too specific to simply dismiss.

And it terrified me.

Formaldehyde. I possessed an entire collection of vials filled with the preserving agent and single strips of skin. It all had to go. Now.