“Stable. For now.” Adeline paused. “Next week will be the thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s death. I gather Shana’s getting some unwelcome attention from it. At least one reporter has contacted the prison, wanting an interview.”

“Does she talk about the case?”

“Never.”

“What about friends, associates?” D.D.’s mind was already racing ahead. Shana might be behind bars, but it boggled D.D.’s mind how many convicted murderers carried out active social lives while supposedly imprisoned. They fell in love, got married. Why not seduce some burgeoning wannabe killer into finishing Daddy’s—or her own—life’s work?

But Adeline was shaking her head. “My sister suffers from severe antisocial personality disorder. Don’t get me wrong; she’s exceptionally smart and disturbingly clever. But she is not like my father. No elderly widow would ever let Shana inside the front door to repair a broken window. Nor does Shana herself have any interest in friends or followers.”

D.D. couldn’t help herself. “So your father is a serial killer, your sister is a proficient murderer—wait, she’s passed the triple victim mark, making her a serial killer in her own right—and you suffer from a rare congenital condition making it impossible for you to feel pain. That’s quite some gene pool.”

“Every bell curve has its outliers.”

“Outliers? Please, your family can’t even be on the graph.”

Adeline shrugged; D.D. switched gears.

“Your sister jealous of you?”

“You would have to ask her.”

“But you two have a relationship?”

“I visit once a month. She’ll tell you I come because I feel guilty. And I’ll tell you she accepts my visits because she’s bored. Detective.. You seem to think this so-called Rose Killer might have a direct connection to my family, may even be inspired by them. Speaking as a psychiatrist with some experience in deviant personalities, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

D.D. gave her a skeptical look.

“If you compare enough pieces of warped wood,” Adeline continued, “some are bound to be warped the same way. Same with abnormal psyches. Many share the same obsessions, rituals and fantasies. Is it that this killer has read about Harry Day, or visited Shana? Or is it enough that he shares their primary belief?”

“Which is?”

“Blood is love. My sister took sewing shears to my arms not to hurt me but to demonstrate her affection. As for twelve-year-old Donnie Johnson, I think it’s possible Shana’s never spoken of that night for the same reason: She didn’t hate the boy. She simply loved him too much and has missed him ever since.”

D.D. arched a brow. “Your sister killed a twelve-year-old boy as a display of her affection?”