“You should feel privileged, Adeline. I saved the best for last. The first two women were specially selected, of course. But what I loved most about them was that they lived alone, they were attractive and they made for great victims. I mean, ugly women, unsympathetic characters no one cares about. But two pretty females with good jobs, caring friends and supportive families—that grabs headlines. That sells books.

“I think your father thought the same. You ever study the full photo gallery of his victims? Not a fugly among them. He had good taste. As the soon-to-be bestselling author of his biography, I’ve done my best to follow in his footsteps. Except I don’t have the luxury of my own home with a private workshop or loose floorboards, of course. Apartment living in Boston has its downfalls.”

He pulled on latex gloves. Then drew out a small, clear glass bottle. Chloroform. In case the carbon monoxide poisoning wore off. In case I attempted to put up a fight.

I strained for sounds from the adjoining master bath. Shana. He didn’t seem to know she was here. If she regained consciousness, still had her knife . . .

“Now,” Charlie said briskly. “I need you to do something for me, Adeline. This case needs to wrap up tonight. Things are getting too hot, what with the intense police investigation, not to mention your sister having flown the coop. Otherwise I might have played things out for maximum tension, but then again . . . No need to take unnecessary risks. I’ve brought a few pieces of hair with me, generously donated by Sam Hayes, whether he knows it or not.

“I need you to, um . . . place them down there. You know. Then later, when the ME examines your body, he will comb them out. DNA matching will lead them to Sam’s apartment, where it turns out he lives all by his lonesome, with no one to provide a solid alibi. He also happens to be the proud owner of some priceless Harry Day memorabilia. If the police can’t build a definitive case out of that, I don’t know why I’ve even bothered.”

Charlie withdrew a ziplock bag. With his gloved hands, he opened it, removing two short brown hairs. He bent over me, peering into my glassy eyes, my torn-up skin.

“Wow, look at you. Always knew Shana was a bitch. Still, to tear apart her own sister . . .” He clucked his tongue, then pressed the strands of hair into my open right hand, folding my fingers around them.

“She didn’t . . . do it,” I heard myself whisper.

“Your face?”

“Your cousin.”

He froze. His expression changed, and with it, so did his demeanor. Professional, composed Paul Donabedian was gone. Like a chameleon morphing, Charlie Sgarzi took over his place, his eyes suddenly hooded, faintly menacing. All these years later, still most comfortable in his role of neighborhood thug.

“Don’t talk to me about Donnie,” he growled.