“I had a brother,” Christi said abruptly. “Five years younger. When I was a kid and our father had been drinking . . . I tried to make sure my father didn’t see Benny. Or if he did, then my father maybe got distracted, noticed me instead.”

“Did that work?” Adeline asked.

“For a bit. Then Benny turned twelve, started drinking himself, and it didn’t matter anymore. They were both mean-ass drunks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I loved my baby brother. The before-twelve Benny. I would’ve died for him. Coupla times, I nearly did. When Shana looked at me, when she whispered, ‘Adeline,’ I knew what she meant. She was really saying ‘Benny.’ She was saving you.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you worth saving?” Christi asked intently. “Or are you the same ungrateful piece of shit my brother turned out to be?”

“I don’t know. Like most sisters, our relationship’s . . . complicated.”

“I’m glad she killed Frankie. I don’t care if that’s wrong or not. He was just like my father. Different man, different uniform, same son of a bitch. Shana knew that. She saw him for what he was, and she used it against him.”

“How did she know all those things about him?” Phil asked. “His divorce, kids, dog. Was that all true?”

“I don’t how she knew, but after Frankie’s death, we heard the COs whispering. According to them, his wife had left him two weeks before for another guard. That’s why he started spending the night.”

“But you never heard the gossip until after Frankie’s death?” Phil repeated.

Christi shrugged. “Not that I remember. Shana knew things about Richie, too. Like, like his own private thoughts, innermost secrets. I think that’s what she was whispering to him that night. She was telling him that everything he feared the most about himself was true. That’s why he wanted to die. I mean, once you understand that you’re not just a worthless piece of shit, but the whole rest of the world knows it, too? Dying doesn’t seem such a bad option. He walked straight into her arms and she was . . . nice about it. Almost tender. Girl’s got voodoo. That’s what I think.”

“You tell all this to Charlie Sgarzi?” D.D. asked.

“The reporter? Yeah, he came sniffing around, coupla months ago. Working on some big ‘bestseller’ involving Shana.” Christi used the term bestseller mockingly.

“You answer his questions?”

“He offered me dinner,” Christi said, as if that should explain things, “at the Olive Garden. Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.”

“He ask you about his cousin’s murder, Donnie Johnson?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t answer those questions. Shana never spoke about it. Never even heard her say his name.”

“But you knew what she’d done, right? Her case was a big deal back in the day. Surely other girls must’ve asked her about it,” Phil pressed.