I wondered if she was the Rose Killer’s type. I’d never thought to ask about hair color, physiology. Ted Bundy had preferred blondes. And my sister’s possible friend?

I fled the store to the women’s restroom, which was thankfully empty. In the end stall. Metallic-blue water bottle out. Clear formaldehyde solution pouring into the toilet. Flushing.

Then back at the sink, rinsing out the bottle more energetically than most. A mother walked in, juggling three large shopping bags and two young kids. She gave me a weary smile, then disappeared into the handicap stall with her charges.

I made a show of refilling my water bottle just in case. Then tucked it in my purse, nestled against a gallon-size bag of crushed glass. Or maybe it was the quart-size bag of human skin.

I left the mall, drove to Target, where at least I had a shopping list.

Six P.M. now. The sun gone, the evening biting. Huddling along with the rest of the postwork commuters, head down, as we performed our final errands before marching home.

The ladies’ room in Target was much more crowded. I had to wait in line for a stall, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Finally, one opened up. I stood before the toilet, fumbling with my purse, then realized belatedly that the waiting patrons would notice my feet facing the wrong way; in that stance, I couldn’t possibly be sitting.

Rearranging myself quickly, purse now on my lap. Waiting for someone to flush so the noise would cover the sound of me working the zipper. I stood at the last minute, dumping half the bag’s contents into the toilet. The bloated strands of flesh had become one congealed mass, floating on top of the water and looking almost exactly like a dead goldfish, before sinking to the bottom of the toilet.

I thought I might vomit. A curious sensation, so far removed from myself, it occurred to me that while harvesting human skin somehow allowed me to sleep better at night, disposing of evidence made me ill.

Another sign of genetic mutation? My adoptive father had had it all wrong. He’d studied me for signs of pain, when he should’ve been analyzing me for signs of violence.

I flushed the toilet. The bowl emptied, refilled.

And three tendrils of human flesh floated back to the top.

I nearly screamed. Had to catch myself, bite my lower lip.

Hands shaking, breath panting, I flushed again. Control, control. Nothing here that couldn’t be managed . . .

Second time was the charm. The toilet bowl emptied, then refilled devoid of human tissue.

I turned, carefully composed my features, then unlocked the stall door and proceeded to the sink.

Not a single waiting female so much as glanced at me. At least, I didn’t think so.

I washed my hands twice. Just . . . because.

I wondered, not for the first time, how my father had done it.