So many things they didn’t know about Samuel Hayes.

Phil knocked a second time.

The door finally opened.

And they found themselves standing face-to-face with a man seated in a wheelchair.

• • •

“I HAVEN’T HAD THE HEART to tell Mrs. Davies,” Samuel Hayes was explaining ten minutes later. They sat together in his one-bedroom unit, Hayes in his wheelchair, D.D. and Phil on the lone love seat in the modest space.

“I fell off a ladder a month ago, working on a roof. Apparently bruised my spine. First few days, when I still had problems moving my legs, the doctors told me it was due to the swelling; I just needed more time to recover. But four weeks of physical therapy and home exercises later, here I am.”

“There’s no elevator in this building,” D.D. said. “How do you manage?”

“I get on the floor and belly crawl my way down four flights of stairs. The guy who drives the rehab shuttle then helps me load up. At the rehab center, they have a wheelchair waiting, which I can use while I’m there. Then, once I get home, I repeat the process of crawling up four flights of stairs. My legs may still be shit, but I’m finally getting those big guns I’ve always wanted.”

Hayes flexed his right arm, his biceps bulging noticeably.

D.D. couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it. Their top suspect was wheelchair-bound. Or at least claiming to be. He could be faking it, right? Then again, dragging yourself up and down four flights of stairs in full view of your neighbors seemed a pretty dramatic ruse.

Was this why the Rose Killer’s victims had been ambushed while they slept? After all, then Hayes could’ve dragged himself onto the bed, done his thing, dragged himself off—

Ah hell, she was reaching for straws. Samuel Hayes was not their man. But then, who was he?

“Tell us about AnaRose Simmons,” D.D. began.

Hayes blinked, clearly startled. “You mean the little girl in Mrs. Davies’s house? Shit, I haven’t thought of her in years.”

“Keep in touch?”

“Nah.” He shook his head.

“Tell us about her anyway,” D.D. prodded.

Hayes blinked, seeming to have to search his memory banks. “Pretty girl,” he said at last. “Like in that way where other people stopped and stared. Made me feel bad for her. Being a foster kid is hard enough. Being a pretty child . . .” He shook his head. “Not a good thing. But she was tough, too. You had to be, to survive being a kid in the system.”

“Sounds like you were friends.”

“We had a relationship of sorts. Including the first night she arrived, she walked into my room and announced that if I tried to touch any of her private parts, she was gonna scream. Then she walked out, like she thought I should know.”