Alex had come with D.D. Phil as well. They huddled off to one side, a somber trio, listening to a minister’s highly impersonal service, before the casket was lowered and the first clod of earth followed.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more. About the cameras, the mason jars, the final twenty-four hours when I realized what the Rose Killer was planning, but also what I was capable of as well.

As we discussed, everyone has triggers. It turns out, a smaller, defenseless victim triggers the good in my sister, Shana, while a raging killer triggers the evil in me.

Shana Day had been buried the day before. A simple wooden casket, another hole in the ground. Apparently, Adeline had found the markers for her parents’ graves years ago and made the arrangements to expand the family plot.

Mrs. Davies had attended. Her presence hadn’t surprised D.D. The older woman had walked right up to the casket and whispered a few words. Nothing D.D. could hear, but she’d bet money the woman had finally delivered her apology, necessary or not.

I took a calculated risk breaking my sister out of prison. I gambled on her trigger being as strong as mine. But more, I gambled on our connection. That all these years later, we had forged a bond. We were sisters.

And together, we would make our last stand.

In the days since the bloody scene in Adeline’s apartment, Phil and Neil had kept busy processing Charlie Sgarzi’s apartment. In a locked file cabinet, they’d found copious notes, photos and other research material that had gone into the making of the Rose Killer. Surveillance videos of his victims. Website printouts on proper chloroform dosages. Handwritten logs tracking each victim’s schedule as he performed his reconnaissance. They even found newspaper clippings on D.D., as well as a fuzzy photo of her at the second crime scene. Best Phil could tell, Charlie had stumbled upon her by accident at the home of the first victim. But being a true-crime aficionado, he’d immediately recognized her as the lead investigator from several high-profile local cases. In that instant, he’d made his decision. The Rose Killer would take on Boston’s best detective. A duel of equals, a battle of wits. Apparently, according to Charlie’s notes, the stuff great drama was made of.

D.D. would like the record to show that she’d won. Except, now no book would ever be written.

If you’re reading this, I hope that the Rose Killer is now dead. Slain by Shana’s hand, if not my own. I would like to think that would be the end of the violence, but of course, that’s not to be.