They’d been driving to Alex’s parents’ house to pick up Jack. Instead, they’d turned around, notifying his understanding parents as they’d headed straight to the Rose Killer’s latest crime scene. A tiny, perfectly appointed home in South Boston that reeked of old memories and fresh blood.

“It’s possible the killer poses as a security company employee, pest control, etcetera,” Phil said. “Would your mother have opened her door for a deliveryman, that kind of thing?”

“Why hasn’t that been in the paper?” Sgarzi exploded.

“Because we haven’t found any witnesses to corroborate our theory,” Phil supplied gently. “Right now, it’s just our best guess based on the ease with which the suspect is accessing his victims’ homes. You say your mother was cautious—”

“Yes!”

“Could she have been asleep in the middle of the afternoon?”

“She naps, yeah. Hell, she’s getting near the end now. More bad days than good and nothing the doctors can do . . . I mean, could’ve done. Ah geez. I need a fucking minute, okay?”

The tiny front parlor allowed little space for privacy. Sgarzi stalked over to the fireplace and stood staring at the mantel.

The house reminded D.D. of Sgarzi’s apartment. Small but well kept. Freshly dusted surfaces, vacuumed rugs. She wondered if Janet still maintained her own home or if it was something Sgarzi did for his mom. Most likely the latter, given the woman’s drastically declining health. Just like Sgarzi had brought his mother dinner tonight. Soup from one of her favorite local restaurants, he’d said, as swallowing solid foods was becoming increasingly difficult.

D.D. couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to walk through the door, call his ailing mother’s name and receive no reply. Then, already starting to worry, moving to the back bedroom, only to discover his deepest, darkest fears had never been deep enough or dark enough to picture what he’d found there.

Now Sgarzi’s hands clenched and unclenched spastically down by his sides. D.D. wondered if he was going to punch the brick fireplace or drive his fist through the aged yellow drywall. With obvious effort, the reporter seemed to pull himself together. One last shudder, then he turned, staring at them with a haggard expression.

“Shana Day did this,” he stated, jabbing the air with one finger.

“Now, Charlie,” Phil began.