“I’ll do that. In the meantime, we’re not going to jump to any conclusions. And we are absolutely, positively not going to let this mess with our heads.”

D.D. could practically feel Adeline’s tired smile over the phone line. “Let me know how that works for you, Detective. As for myself, I’m going shopping. A little retail therapy can ease the burden of any woman’s soul.”

The doctor hung up. D.D. called the ME’s office. She had to wait ten minutes for Ben to pick up the line. As a matter of fact, he’d just finished arranging and analyzing the strips of skin from the first victim earlier in the afternoon. He’d counted 153.

“I’m actually guessing one hundred and sixty were removed,” he continued briskly. “With seven being taken away as souvenirs. I don’t have any proof, of course. Only that one hundred and sixty is a nice round number, and it’s clear to me that some amount of derma remains missing.”

D.D. thanked him for his report, disconnected the phone, hung her head. It didn’t matter, she thought. Whether the Rose Killer had removed 160 strips of skin total, or 155, or 161. What mattered was the precise number left behind for the investigators to find and catalogue. One hundred fifty-three.

A numeric homage to Harry Day. As predicted by his daughter Shana.

“I absolutely, positively will not let this mess with my head,” she muttered. Then: “Shit.”

Chapter 22

WHAT DID IT FEEL LIKE to open your eyes in the middle of the night and find a killer standing in the middle of your bedroom? The split second when you blinked your eyes owlishly, because such a thing, the silhouette of a man now at the foot of your bed, couldn’t be. It just . . . couldn’t be.

Did you scream? Or did the terror squeeze your throat, compress your chest just as quickly and easily as his hands would soon do. Denial. An innate inability to process. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not here. I’m not this kind of person, I don’t lead this kind of life, I wasn’t meant for this kind of death.

Then the gleam of the finely honed blade moving in the dark . . .

My thoughts scattered. Jumping and leaping as I roamed the overbright shopping mall, surrounded by a sea of humanity and judiciously avoiding all eye contact as I clutched my oversize purse and went about my business.

At the Ann Taylor store. Dutifully trying on a new cream-colored blouse, a pair of camel-colored wool pants. Glancing once at the name tag of the chirpy young sales clerk. Then noticing her pale left hand, devoid of rings, and wondering if she had her own place, a confident single woman with her own apartment. She had brown hair like me, a quick smile.