Because who’d ever consider that his bar hookup had removed a strip of his skin with a scalpel while he slept? And even now, she kept it in a glass vial, part of a special collection she couldn’t explain but was compelled to keep.

My adoptive father had obsessed over my genetic inability to feel pain.

Maybe he should’ve been more concerned with my genetic predisposition to inflict it upon others.

• • •

I WENT HOME, conducted a thorough physical exam to ensure I hadn’t accrued any unsuspected damage, then collapsed into bed, sleeping without a single dream.

I woke up bright and early to a phone call from the prison.

Superintendent McKinnon’s voice was firm and crisp. “Adeline, there’s been another incident. Shana got her hands on a homemade shank. Apparently, spent most of the night working herself over. She’s currently stabilized down in medical, but Adeline . . . it’s bad.”

I nodded, because when it came to my sister, there had never been anything good. I hung up the phone, swung out of bed and prepared to return once more to prison.

Chapter 6

ALEX MADE ALL THE ARRANGEMENTS. D.D.’s physical therapist plus Phil and Neil would meet them at the scene of the first murder and D.D.’s subsequent stair dive. Seven A.M., D.D. sat in the kitchen across from three-year-old Jack, plying him with Cheerios while engaging in their morning contest of who could make the most ridiculous face. As usual, Jack won, but D.D. felt she put up a fair fight.

Eight A.M., Alex drove Jack to day care, at a neighbor’s house just down the street. D.D. told herself she was not nervous. Alex’s idea to reconstruct the shooting incident of six weeks ago based upon the resulting trauma to her body made perfect sense. Forensic collision experts did it all the time, looked at smashed-up car A, smashed-up car B, then rendered stunningly accurate analyses of the auto accident, including who was to blame. If it could work on cars, why not the human body?

Eight thirty. Alex returned home and the real challenge began. Pulling on fresh clothes, despite the limited mobility of D.D.’s left arm and the excruciating pain that still radiated throughout much of her neck and shoulder.

“Melvin,” she said, eyeing her tucked left arm in the mirror.

Her shoulder blazed instant pain. The kind that came from overstretched muscles and inflamed nerves, she’d been told, and would require months to heal.

What had the shrink told her? Talk to Melvin. Let him know who was in charge.

“All right,” she addressed her reflection. “Here’s the deal. Got a big morning. Gonna do some real work, and part of that work is trying to remember what you made me forget.”

Her shoulder remained . . . a shoulder, reflected in a mirror.