Right until her face had changed into a snarl. And she’d turned on him, lashing out with a knife. Impulsive. Wild. She was angry, and so she acted enraged.

My sister, who weaved a story to make me stay. Who talked at least two, if not three, men into their own deaths.

I frowned, finding a towel, drying myself off.

Words. Those were my sister’s weapon as well. And no less dangerous. But, if you were into patterns—and psychiatrists loved patterns—my sister’s MO was to talk first. Engage. Seduce. Coerce the desired behavior.

If she could do that with trained guards, why would she not have tried that first on a twelve-year-old boy? Sold him some story devised to make him fetch Charlie for her right away. She was sick, she needed Charlie, she wasn’t mad at all; she just needed to give him something back.

She would. I knew it. She would’ve talked to Donnie first. Because my sister wouldn’t have wanted to waste her wrath on the twelve-year-old messenger. No, Charlie had rejected her, and her razor-sharp mind would’ve gone straight there, lasering in on target.

My sister hadn’t killed Donnie Johnson.

Someone else had. But had she seen it? Maybe arrived toward the end of it? A person . . . A girl, I thought, a girl bending over a boy with a blade in her hand, like my mother with my father all those years ago.

Instant psychotic episode.

My sister had never stood a chance.

But the ear in her pocket?

She could’ve taken it. Maybe even done the mutilation herself. At that point, she would’ve been on autopilot, the episode having triggered not only all of her deepest, darkest desires but also her deepest, darkest memories. Had my father ever removed some poor girl’s ear? I’m sure if I went through the files, I’d find at least one instance.

Someone else had killed Donnie. Maybe even looked up in shock when Shana appeared. Except my sister hadn’t responded with outrage. Instead, she’d stepped forward, already captivated by the smell of blood. . . .

That person had found his or her perfect patsy. One person to do the crime but another to serve the time. And my sister hadn’t been able to fight back, because she lacked all memory from that night. Not to mention, the murder looked exactly like something she knew, deep down inside, she would do.

She was the daughter of a serial killer, accused of murder, who went on to become a serial killer. Destiny, I think Shana would say. She simply got tired of fighting it.

So what did she want from me?

And what could I realistically offer her?