“Fair enough,” Alex granted. “But . . . who? You’re saying this reporter guy claims she has a helper from before her life in prison. Meaning a thirty-year-old never-before-seen friendship?”

D.D. shrugged. “By all accounts, Shana hasn’t made any contacts while in prison. Thus, it makes some sense her lone ally is from before her life behind bars.”

Alex shot her a look, obviously skeptical. “And this person spies for her?”

“We have numerous reports of Shana knowing things she shouldn’t.”

“So Shana gets information and power. And her imaginary friend? What’s in it for him?”

D.D. pursed her lips. “Shits and giggles? Thrills and chills? How am I supposed to know? I’m sane. The kind of people who form attachments to incarcerated murderers, not so much so.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “How’s Melvin?” he asked, gesturing to her icy shoulder.

“Oh, you know, he’s his normal cranky self. It’s possible I might have pushed it too hard today.”

Alex shot her a glance.

“Then again, turns out playing head games with one of the most notorious female killers in Massachusetts is very distracting, which has at least helped me ignore the pain. Who knew?”

Her husband sighed heavily. Chances were, right about now he was wishing he’d married a cupcake baker, or maybe a very nice librarian who ran amazing programs for educating kids. Then again: “All right,” he said briskly. “Have it your way. As long as Melvin isn’t too cranky and you’re not too tired . . . I have another issue with your theory of the crime.”

“Which is?”

“Why now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why now?” Alex repeated. “Assuming Shana and her mysterious partner have had a relationship for thirty-plus years, why was the first murder only seven weeks ago? Don’t all killers have—what do you call it?—an inciting incident? What then, basically three decades later, elevated their relationship to this whole new level?”

“The upcoming thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s murder,” D.D. guessed.

“Really? Because what about the ten-year anniversary of the boy’s murder? Or the twentieth, or the twenty-fifth? What makes thirty the magic number?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“And why you?”

“What about me?”

“Exactly. The Rose Killer, the supposed protégé of Shana Day, who’s now spent thirty years learning from a master, finally graduates, kills his first victim and targets you, Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren. Pushes you down a flight of stairs. Delivers love tokens to your home. That’s deliberate, D.D., don’t tell me that’s not deliberate—”

“I’m not saying—”

“So why you?” he insisted. “You weren’t even a cop thirty years ago, when Donnie Johnson was murdered. You have no connection to him or Shana Day. Why bring you into this mess? Why bring any investigator into this mess?”