Shana couldn’t drive. I’d forgotten about that. Which immediately made me wonder what other details I’d screwed up.

I conducted a quick search of my entire condo. The cameras were still in place, masking tape over the lenses. So the Rose Killer had not yet had the opportunity to fetch his or her toys. Too busy stalking the next woman? Or simply savoring this lull in the storm before descending and wreaking havoc on my life again?

I wasn’t afraid anymore. Mostly, I just wished the Rose Killer would hurry up and get it over with.

In the bathroom, I carefully removed the taped patches of gauze from my face. No time like the present. I took a deep breath. Looked up. Stared.

If the white bandages had seemed conspicuous, then the bloody patchwork quilt that was currently my visage was beyond shocking. Six, seven, eight, bright red lines. Across my forehead. Slashing down over my right eye. Across my nose, down both cheeks, a jagged gash slicing across my chin. I looked like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster; not a real woman but a macabre imitation sewn together with random pieces of skin.

And yet . . . I fingered one shiny red line, then another. Only three of the cuts had required stitches, and then only in certain places. The majority of the damage, true to Shana’s word, was superficial. The doctors had cleaned the wounds, then coated them with a skin adhesive to aid in healing.

No, the far greater damage was to my left hand. And I’d done that myself, most likely while sawing through Shana’s wrist restraints.

My sister had done as she’d promised. Didn’t that mean something? Honor among thieves and all that.

No going back, I informed the woman in the mirror. No going back.

I would’ve liked to shower, but I wasn’t supposed to get my hand or face wet. I settled for a sponge bath, the best I could do with only my right hand. Then I awkwardly pulled on a loose-fitting pair of jeans, plain cable-knit sweater.

Fortified, I crossed to my closet. I had a safe in the back where I stored my nicer pieces of jewelry. Now I opened it and pulled out a phone. A prepaid cell, the twin of the same phone I’d left for my sister in my purse. I’d memorized her number first thing this morning. Now I dialed it.

The phone rang. Two, three, four, five, six times.

Just when I was beginning to panic, my sister picked up.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Fanueil Hall.”

“Faneuil Hall? How did you get there?”

“I can’t drive,” she said, voice flat.

“Then how?”

“Guy stopped. Saw the car broken down, offered me a ride. I’d cleaned my face,” she said, as if this explained everything.

I couldn’t help myself: “And this man, is he . . .”