Phil glanced at her. “The Rose Killer.”

“Meaning we’re not looking for just an escaped murderer or just a serial killer. Now, we’re looking for a killing team, squared.”

. . .

• • •

ADELINE WAS SITTING UP when D.D. and Phil followed Superintendent McKinnon into the infirmary fifteen minutes later. Her face was covered in white bandages, making it nearly impossible to determine her features. But she had a determined look in her eyes as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Superintendent McKinnon demanded sharply.

“Leaving.”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“Don’t make me yell,” Adeline gritted out. “It’ll pull my stitches.”

Superintendent McKinnon thinned her lips, crossing her arms sternly over her chest. D.D. didn’t know how she did it. For a gorgeous black woman, the superintendent was one of the most imposing people D.D. had ever met.

She stepped around the superintendent’s planted form, Phil coming around the other side.

Adeline regarded their approach, then sighed heavily. “I just want to go home.”

“Think that’s wise?” D.D. asked. “Your sister has the keys to your condo.”

“If she’d wanted to kill me, she already could have.” The doctor fingered her bandages. “Not so hard, you know, to go from slicing one’s face to slitting one’s throat.”

“So why didn’t she?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“Still think she’s protecting you?”

“I have dozens of stitches in my skin. I’m missing a fingertip. Protective isn’t the word I’d used to describe my sister right now.”

D.D. nodded. She stood on one side of Adeline, Phil on the other, effectively blocking the doctor’s escape. Once more, the woman sighed.

“What do you want?”

“Why did you meet with your sister this morning?”

“I wanted to ask her about our parents.”

“And Donnie Johnson.”

Adeline skewered her with a look. Or tried to. The doctor’s eyes were slightly glassy, the remnants of shock, fear or painkillers, D.D. thought, before remembering Adeline wouldn’t have needed any painkillers. She wondered how much that had freaked out the attending doctor, stitching up the face of a fully conscious, fully lucid patient as she stared back at him.

Adeline licked her lips. “I have a theory about Donnie Johnson. I wanted to test it.”

“What’s your theory?” Phil asked.

“I think Shana suffered a psychotic episode—”

“You mentioned that yesterday.”

“Yes, but the more I thought about it, the more I’m convinced. . . . Do you know what happened to our father? The last moments of Harry Day?”

“He killed himself,” D.D. said.