My sister sighed, her face falling. “I remember everything,” she whispered. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe that’s my problem. If I could just forget . . . I looked up Daddy when I was old enough. I dreamed of blood. All the time. Things I could see, always clear as day, as well as smell and taste. The things I already fantasized about doing . . . Except they weren’t really fantasies. They’d be . . . reenactments. Daddy ruined me, Adeline. And not just with his DNA but with his appetites. I am him. He died in that goddamn tub, just to regrow under my skin. So, yeah, I looked him up. Went to the library, read every article I could find on microfiche. His collection reached one hundred and fifty-three strips of human skin, labeled and preserved in jam-size mason jars. You gotta admit, not bad for a life’s work.”

“But the Rose Killer—”

“Clearly looks up to Daddy. Meaning he’s done his own homework. As long as you are studying a master, wouldn’t you pay homage?”

“You’re saying you have no personal connection with the Rose Killer. You merely . . . think like him? Or like her.”

Shana smiled. “Is that really so hard to imagine?”

“Did you know the killer would strike again last night?”

“I wouldn’t have picked last night. But sooner versus later. Once you know what you can do . . . it’s harder to fight the cravings.”

“Male or female, Shana? If you’re such a great expert, which is our killer?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, haven’t really thought about it. Most killers are boys, so I default to that. Not every woman, you know, can be as good as me.”

I stared at her. “Maybe it’s still you. Maybe it’s all about you.”

But my sister shook her head. “Nah. It’s you, Adeline. I’m locked up, tucked away, moldering after all these years. No one even remembers me—”

“Charlie Sgarzi—”

“Arrogant little shit. Always was, even back then. No one cares about me, Adeline. But you . . . The killer knows you. You’re the daughter of his idol, all grown up, pretty, successful. Interesting, too, with that whole can’t-feel-pain thing. Of course the Rose Killer’s looked you up, learned your name. Probably also visited your office and found where you live. I bet he’s walked through your bedroom, placing his hand upon the pillow where you sleep. He’d pose as a maintenance person or pest control to get inside, something so ordinary that all these weeks, months later you’ve still never suspected a thing. But he knows you, Adeline. He or she. The Rose Killer has researched you, watched you, obsessed over you. He has to. You’re Harry Day’s magical daughter who can’t feel pain. You’re like catnip for serial killers. Of course he can’t walk away.”

I couldn’t help myself; I shivered.