“Can you trace it for me?” D.D. implored. “I could have Phil run it through the department experts, but you know that’ll kill at least twenty-four hours; whereas, if memory serves, you have a friend at the academy. . . .”

“Who is the very best at computer forensics. All right, I’m in.”

Alex made the call. Given the late hour, Dave Matesky was at home. Alex read off the e-mail address. Matesky did whatever it was computer techs did, and within a matter of minutes, they had a name.

Samuel Hayes.

Shana’s former foster brother.

“Hot damn.” D.D. got on the phone with Phil.

Chapter 32

I STARTED MY PREPARATIONS as the sun first peeked over the horizon. I hadn’t slept, but the gaunt look of my face, the deep bruises under my eyes, would only help in the hours to come.

I began with my hair, wrenching it back in the most severe hairstyle I could imagine. No foundation, powder, mascara. Dr. Glen would be unpolished this morning. Showing her true face to the world. Given my current level of stress, I didn’t think anyone would question this new look. If I appeared on the verge of a breakdown, well, I had a couple of things worth breaking over, didn’t I?

Three mason jars. Set inside a shoe box. And fitted neatly into the hidey-hole where just the day before I’d emptied out my own collection of human skin.

Sometime yesterday, the Rose Killer had graciously refilled my supply. The victims’ flesh hidden neatly in my condo. A murderer’s atrocities in my closet.

Had the Rose Killer imagined me sleeping there? Harry Day’s daughter, once more curled atop precious trophies?

It had taken me another fifteen minutes to find the cameras, little electronic eyes. One in my closet, one in my bedroom, one in my living room. That was how the killer had known about the hiding space. Because the killer hadn’t just been visiting my condo; the killer had been spying on me. He or she must’ve been in my unit more often than I’d realized to set up such an elaborate system.

In the middle of the night, I didn’t try to understand it. I simply placed strips of masking tape over each tiny lens, blinding the eyes. Then I sat on my sofa, armed with only my rage, and waited for the killer to come do something about it.

I didn’t call the police. I didn’t notify D. D. Warren or Detective Phil. Yes, I had evidence in my house. Items they most likely needed for pursuing the Rose Killer, from the skin collection to the home electronics. But it didn’t matter anymore. This game wasn’t about cops and robbers.

It was business. Family business.