An offer of help, graciously given. But McKinnon’s eyes were overbright again, making me uncomfortable. A wronged prison superintendent’s zealous desire to make things right, correct the one inmate who’d gotten the better of her? Or something more? Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on yet.

“I’ll change my locks, first thing, I promise.”

McKinnon scowled, studied me harder.

And I started to think of things I didn’t want to think. D.D.’s growing conviction that the Rose Killer might be female. And that my sister couldn’t have been in contact with someone outside the prison; whereas, someone inside those same walls, say, a fellow inmate, or a corrections officer, or even the prison superintendent . . .

“I need to go. I need to rest.”

McKinnon hesitated, expression still inscrutable.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“What about that vacation?”

“I’ll take it into consideration.”

“You’ll keep me posted?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“If you need help, Adeline, please don’t hesitate to call. I realize our relationship has always been about Shana, but given the number of years . . . If you need anything,” McKinnon finished stiffly, “I’d be honored to assist.”

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, already moving toward the rental car, “I doubt Shana’s enjoying her freedom right now. After thirty years behind bars, I imagine she’s feeling mostly overwhelmed if not downright anxious.”

The superintendent grunted, dropping back, giving us both space to breathe. “I can take some solace in that. But I’d take even more solace in a SWAT team nailing her sorry ass.”

My turn to smile, but it felt strange, my skin rubbing against the rough bandages.

“Kimberly,” I heard myself say, hand on the car door.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. For this morning. For all that my sister’s put you through. For . . . everything.”

“Not your apology to make.”

I smiled again and thought that for someone who didn’t feel pain, the sensation in my chest felt curiously like a slow, aching burn.

I made it back to my high-rise building, parking the rental car in the subterranean lot. I’d driven around the block three times first, counting four police cruisers in the vicinity, three Boston, one state. My condo would remain under watch for the near future, I figured, which made it imperative to plan ahead for what would happen next.

I entered my unit carefully, not sure what I feared the most: detectives, crime scene techs or the Rose Killer him- or herself.

I found only empty rooms. For the moment, the police still considered me a victim. They were watching my building for a sign of my sister’s approach but didn’t yet have reason to intrude upon my personal space, given the last sighting of Shana had been roughly twenty miles south of here and they considered her on foot.