“Janet Sgarzi was the Rose Killer’s victim,” Alex continued steadily. “She wasn’t, however, the killer’s preferred victim type. Meaning something else must have made her a target.”

“Charlie Sgarzi believes Shana Day did this,” D.D. supplied. “She ordered the Rose Killer to murder his mother to get back at him for investigating her. Or maybe to warn him off, in which case, I don’t think it worked, because he’s mostly vowed revenge.”

“Or she knew something,” Alex said.

“What do you mean?”

“Shana Day has been quietly sitting in solitary for nearly thirty years, yes?”

“True.”

“And now, suddenly, you believe she’s engaged in some kind of coded communication with a serial killer who’s magically appeared in Boston and seems to be emulating another long-dead predator, Harry Day.”

“True.”

“Except, returning to the question of the day, why now? What’s the inciting event? The thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s murder? Because that seems rather arbitrary as anniversary dates go.”

D.D. gave him a look. “We discussed this. And trust me, you doubted my intelligence just fine the first time.”

“I’m not doubting your intelligence. I’m offering a theory. Janet Sgarzi wasn’t just Donnie Johnson’s aunt; she was Charlie’s mom—the reporter who, only a matter of months ago, started asking fresh questions about his cousin’s death.”

D.D. looked up at him, frowning. “You mean . . .”

“A thirty-year anniversary date is subjective. Reopening an investigation into an old murder, on the other hand . . . What if Shana really does have a friend from back in the day? And what if that person knows things, or did things, that all these years later, he/she/it still can’t afford to come to light?”

“The Rose Killer’s true motive isn’t a macabre string of murders deliberately staged to recall shades of Harry Day,” D.D. murmured. “It’s a cover-up. Because there’s no statute of limitations on homicide. Pat’s still got everything to lose.”

“And one very real weakness,” Alex offered grimly. “Shana Day.”

Chapter 24

SUPERINTENDENT MCKINNON CALLED just after 6:00 A.M. Having yet to fall asleep, I found it easy enough to pick up the phone, then murmur the appropriate words as McKinnon explained that my sister wanted to speak with me. But of course, I said. I could be there at eight.

Then I hung up the phone and crawled out of the depths of my closet, where I’d spent the night after D. D. Warren’s phone call notifying me of the Rose Killer’s latest attack. I spent long minutes under the stinging spray of a lukewarm shower. I still didn’t feel quite human.