“The bar game,” I repeated. “We did it all the time as psych students. Go to a bar, gaze around the tables and deduce the life story of each of your fellow barflies. As soon-to-be-doctors, we prided ourselves on interpreting body language. You’re detectives; I imagine you’d be equally good.”

D.D. and Phil were frowning at me. “Okay. We like bar games, too,” D.D. said at last. “What of it?”

“Bet you could always pick out the fresh divorcé.”

“Sure.”

“And so can my sister.”

They paused as I watched the implication of this sink in.

“You think,” Phil said, “Shana guessed that Frankie was going through a divorce, simply by studying him.”

“It’s not so hard. He used to bring a bag lunch—packed by his wife—now does not. He used to wear a freshly cleaned uniform—laundered by his wife—now does not. Not to mention a change in pattern, such as staying all night at the prison during his time off. Someone as misogynistic as Frankie was reputed to be no doubt was married to a stay-at-home, see-to-all-of-my-needs wife. A woman who cleaned, cooked and otherwise tended him. Meaning when she escaped, the impact on Frankie’s world would be readily visible. In a crowded bar, I’d be able to read him, and so would you. Why not my sister, who had nothing better to do, day after day after day?”

They considered the matter. “But sounds like she knew more than the recent split,” D.D. said.

“Perhaps she gleaned choice tidbits from the prison rumor mill. Others dropped hints; she picked them up. Not to mention, it’s all about the delivery. Not knowing what you know, but sounding as if you know what you know. Christi called it voodoo. More likely, my sister is simply very adept at basic parlor tricks. She listens, she analyzes and then she strikes.”

“She listened and analyzed the second guard, Richie, into letting her kill him?” Phil asked dubiously, still looking troubled.

“I think she pegged him as having a conscience. After that, the rest wouldn’t be so hard.”

“Meaning you could do it,” D.D. said, her tone challenging.

“Except I have a conscience,” I reminded her. Reminded myself.

“You think Christi might be telling the truth,” Phil said. “Your sister outmaneuvered both those guards, maybe even got the third, Howard, to kill himself in a car accident, except it wasn’t because she had access to outside information. She simply manipulated them.”

“I think we shouldn’t imbue my sister with too many superpowers. She has enough superior attributes as it is.”

“Which leaves us with what?” D.D. asked.

I took a deep breath. “She didn’t do it.”

“Which it?” D.D., again, already disbelieving. “Kill Donnie Johnson, murder an inmate, shank two guards, manipulate the Rose Killer or all of the above?”