“But you don’t look like me,” Shana burst out desperately, nose nearly touching mine. “Maybe with these clothes, the hair, the bloody face, I can almost pass for you. But they’re never gonna believe you’re me.”

“You’re right. One last step.” I held up the razor. Placed its edge against my right cheek. “Your history of self-mutilation is about to become your salvation. Untouched, I can’t pass as you. But once my face has been shredded to ribbons . . .”

I started to slide the razor. No pain, not even a sensation of cold, as by now, the razor was prewarmed by my own blood.

“Wait!” Shana grabbed my hand.

Guards, voices louder now, as the glass window surrendered to the constant assault and displayed the first array of spiderwebs.

“I’ll do it. You don’t have enough experience. You’ll cut too deep, leave behind a scar. It wouldn’t be right.”

She stopped talking, taking a deep breath. Then her fingers plucked the razor from mine.

Shana, leaning closer, trying to see in the dark. I could feel her eyes, fixed on mine. One second. Two. She placed the razor against my right cheek. Three seconds. Four.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Remember, I won’t feel a thing.”

My sister drew the first line down my face. I could feel her breath wash over me, a sigh, both mournful and ecstatic. I wonder if she had looked like this all those years ago, marking my arm with scissors in the foster home. Or if she was being true to her word now, trying hard not to cut too deep and disfigure me permanently.

“’Kay?” she asked after the first cut, her voice thick.

“More.”

“Jesus, Adeline.”

“More. Make them believe, Shana. For both our sakes, they must believe.”

Another cut. Across my nose, I could feel the razor like a pen tip, someone drawing across my face. Then the sensation of wet raining down my cheeks.

“Forehead,” I commanded. “Nothing bleeds like a head wound.”

My sister’s eyes glistened. Unshed tears? Unwanted emotion? But she didn’t stop. I was handing her freedom. Why would she stop? After this, she would walk out the door, Dr. Adeline Glen. Fulfill her deepest fantasy of taking over my life. My car, my condo, my office. I had handed her everything.

Shana Day. The most notorious female killer in the entire state. Who had ruined Mrs. Davies’s life. And the Johnsons’ and the Sgarzis’, before talking three men to their own deaths.

And yet she’d saved her fellow inmates and still mourned a five-year-old boy.

My big sister. The monster I was releasing upon the world.

I reached out, placing my fingertips against her cheek, even as she continued to draw the razor across mine.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure why. I was the giver; she was the taker.