After a long moment, I eased my fingers free. Then I lifted my hand and studied the faint white scar I’d had for as long as I could remember across the pale blue veins of my wrists. Apparently put there by my sister forty years ago.

I could nearly hear my adoptive father’s voice now in my head: Pain is . . . ?

Pain is remembering, I thought.

Pain is family.

Which explains why even an expert on pain, such as myself, turned away and walked out the door.

Chapter 8

UPON RETURNING HOME, the first thing D.D. did was call the medical examiner, Ben Whitley. Alex had had to continue on to work, so she was alone in the house, sprawled on the sofa, still wearing yoga clothes from the morning’s analysis of her own injuries.

“I have a question,” she said the moment Ben picked up.

“D.D.!” Ben’s voice boomed in her ear. The ME wasn’t necessarily the world’s most outgoing personality, but during the years he’d dated D.D.’s squad mate Neil, they’d gotten to know each other personally and, even after the breakup, had remained friends. “Heard about the avulsion fracture. Leave it to you to injure yourself in the most creative way possible.”

“I try.”

“Left arm?”

“Yes.”

“Icing? Exercising? Resting?”

“Yes. Yes. Mostly.”

“You must be losing your mind.”

“Yes!”

“Which is why you’re calling me. Let me guess, you want to know about our latest skinning victim.”

“No.”

For the first time, Ben paused. D.D. could practically hear him thinking over the phone line.

“Not the second victim,” she supplied graciously. “I figured you were just now getting to that exam.”

“Slated for later this afternoon.”

“Sounds about right. So I have a question about the first victim, Christine Ryan, as I’m assuming you’ve had more time with those remains. And given you’re a savvy medical examiner, one of the best we’ve ever had—”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“And you’ve already examined the excised skin . . .”

“True.”

“You may have some working theories on the blade used by the killer?”

“True again. Very thin, no nicks or damages to the edge. Question of the day, however, was it a knife edge, or perhaps a razor?”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. But now, considering . . . “Wouldn’t a razor be difficult to manage through such an . . . involved process? I mean, as a cutting instrument, given the thin strips, okay. But factor in the number of thin strips, and to be blunt, wouldn’t a razor become too slippery to handle?”