Then it occurred to me that the killer had probably sat on my bed. Maybe even laid his or her head upon my pillow, just to see what it would feel like.

I got up, stripped off the top covers, then my sheets. I carried the first bundle down the hall to the stacked washer and dryer. I went heavy on the detergent and even heavier on the bleach.

Then it was into the master bath, where I finally confronted myself in the mirror. I looked paler than I had just this morning. Features gaunter, eyes shadowed. I looked more like my sister. Jail life, living in fear, apparently had the same effect on people.

I switched my attention to my wrist, the three gouges I’d treated in Detective Phil’s vehicle. The scratches appeared shallow, the skin not too ragged around the edges. The wound remained slightly inflamed; I would need to monitor my temperature to help protect against an infection. Now I unbuttoned my fuchsia cardigan to reveal a thin white shell beneath. Then I removed the shell as well, taking in the pale expanse of my shoulders, arms and stomach. I pivoted, this way and that.

A bruise. I didn’t know how, let alone when, but a bruise darkened the back of my left arm. And another abrasion, just above the waistline of my slacks. The cat? Myself carelessly brushing against random sharp objects?

Things I would never know. I just got to log the damage, not necessarily identify the source.

I stepped out of my slacks, letting them puddle to the floor. I found another bruise, this one on the inside of my right thigh. Apparently, playing with two cops wasn’t great for one’s physical well-being.

My fingers ran slowly through my hair, checking my scalp. Then I felt each joint, testing for swelling, because maybe I’d stepped funny off a curb or twisted my ankle getting into a car. I finished by checking my eyes in a magnified mirror, then taking my temperature. The final few checks were fine. Other than the fact a serial killer was stalking me, I was good to go.

I belted on a long silk robe, then plodded out to the kitchen. Went ahead with that giant glass of wine. Then I stared at my front door and realized I’d never be able to sleep like this. If the Rose Killer had picked the lock once, he or she could do it again. Or maybe it hadn’t even been that hard; maybe the killer already had a copy of my key. Why not? The killer already seemed to know everything about me.

I was too tired to call a locksmith, so I settled for wedging a chair beneath the handle. Then, feeling vindictive, I covered the floor with round glass Christmas ornaments, like the boy had done in that Home Alone movie. If it had worked for him, why not me?