“We’ll be there just as soon as we’re done securing Mrs. Davies’s residence. Oh, and I wouldn’t go out if I were you. Keep all doors and windows locked. Trust us on this one.”

D.D. ended the call. She returned the phone to Mrs. Davies, who appeared suitably wide-eyed.

“Are you really so afraid . . . ?” the woman breathed.

“Better safe than sorry,” D.D. assured her. “Same goes for you, Mrs. Davies. Best to stay inside, and keep the house shuttered tight. If you hear any sound out of place, dial us direct.” Phil produced a card. “We’ll have a patrol car sent here immediately. Okay?”

“Okay.” But Mrs. Davies didn’t appear frightened anymore. She had that belligerent look back on her face.

“Do you want to see her again?” D.D. asked curiously.

“There are some things I’d like to say.”

“Such as?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I am sorry,” Mrs. Davies repeated evenly. “We were the parents. It was our job to do right by her. Then, when we realized we couldn’t, we should’ve gotten her to a home or to a place where they could’ve helped her. But we didn’t. We sat on our hands, waiting for something to magically change. For that, I’m sorry.”

“Mrs. Davies . . . What Shana did, that wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that, too. That girl is the devil, and the devil will have her due. But she was still the child, and we were still the adults. That matters, Detective, don’t you think? At least, it matters to me.”

D.D. shook her head, unconvinced. Not all children were childlike. And she’d met enough youthful offenders to know that some were well beyond the reach of any well-meaning adult, let alone mental health expert or even dedicated parole officer.

Mrs. Davies assured them she would take all necessary precautions. Then Phil and D.D. conducted a slow drive around the block, eyes peeled, just in case they’d missed something, such as Shana blatantly peering around from behind a bush. Or a trail of blood leading to a neighbor’s back door.

When the neighborhood remained quiet, they continued on.

Four P.M. The sun already beginning to fade, dusk approaching.

They went in search of Samuel Hayes.

• • •

THE ADDRESS LED THEM to an apartment building in Allston, one of the most densely packed neighborhoods in Boston. D.D. followed Phil up a very narrow flight of stairs, keeping her right shoulder against the wall, reminding herself to breathe deeply—then modified that request to include breathing through her mouth, when the stench of cooked cabbage and cat urine assaulted her senses.

Upon reaching the fourth-floor unit, Phil did the knocking. He indicated for D.D. to remain behind him and slightly to the side. He had his right hand floating around his waist, not far from his holster.