Adeline shook her head, her gaze fixed upon the glossy surface of her neatly organized desk. “I don’t know. My adoptive father had compiled a history on both of my birth parents. Family is legacy, and he wanted me to be prepared. I’ve studied the material a great deal over the years. There is significant documentation on Harry Day. The neighbors described him as engaging, clever, good with his hands. By all accounts, my parents didn’t socialize a great deal, but if you ran into Harry on the streets, he wouldn’t give you the cold shoulder or turn your hair on end. One of the neighbors, an elderly widow, even raved about what a nice young man he was, fixed a leaking window for her, helped out with a squeaky door. Wouldn’t even accept any money, just wanted a piece of her homemade apple pie. Of course, those are the types of stories that become nearly legendary after the fact, the cold killer with the kind heart. But to be honest, I don’t believe it.”

“The elderly neighbor was making the story up?”

“No.” Adeline looked up, regarded D.D. flatly. “Harry was making himself up. That’s what superpredators do, right? Engage in camouflage. I suspect he probably had some poor girl chained to the workbench in his shop that same week. Ergo, he went out of his way to help a neighbor. So if the police did come sniffing around, they’d all get the same scoop: Harry Day, what a nice guy, why just the other day, he fixed my broken window . . .”

D.D. nodded. She’d run across the same phenomenon—the But He Seemed Like Such a Nice Guy killer—and she agreed with Adeline’s assessment. Psychopaths were never nice. They were just good at playing the part when it suited their needs.

Now D.D. pressed: “You still haven’t answered my question about your mom.”

“Because I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Even my adoptive father, who was an award-winning researcher, couldn’t find any information on her. She was a ghost. No extended family, no past. She migrated to Boston from somewhere in the Midwest; at least that’s what she told people. Her marriage certificate listed her maiden name as Davis, which, frankly, is too common to effectively trace. She never answered any of the police’s questions, and not even the neighbors seemed to know her. Anne Davis lived as a shadow. Then became a ghost.”

D.D. couldn’t help herself; she shivered slightly. “Maybe that just proves she knew what her husband was doing. Leading to the mental breakdown: survivor’s guilt.”

Adeline merely shrugged. “Irrelevant. As you know even better than I, Harry was the perfect psychopath, and that kind of predator is always the alpha. Even if Anne knew, there was nothing she could’ve done. Harry was the one in control.”