Shana frowned at me, clearly perplexed by such a question. “You,” she said at last, “are a fucking retard.”

“And that,” I observed, “is the most sisterly thing you’ve ever said to me.”

A winning barb. Shana rolled her eyes but finally, grudgingly smiled. The tension in the room eased at last, and both of us could breathe again.

Shana might talk a good game, but according to the prison superintendent, my sister seemed to genuinely look forward to these monthly meetings. Enough so that during extreme episodes of disorderly conduct, the threat of losing my upcoming visit was often the only punishment severe enough to bring her round. Hence, we continued our monthly dance, which had been going on now for nearly a decade.

Perhaps as close to a true relationship as one got with a born psychopath.

“How are you sleeping?” I asked.

“Like a baby.”

“Read anything good?”

“Oh yeah. Complete works of Shakespeare. Never know when iambic pentameter might come in handy.”

“Et tu, Brute?”

Another faint smile. Shana relaxing further into her chair. And so we went, another thirty minutes of conversation both pointed and pointless, as we did the first Monday of each month. Until Officer Maria rapped on the window, and just like that, our time was up. I rose to standing. My sister, who wasn’t going anywhere, chose to remain in her seat.

“Fuchsia,” she recommended again, as I undraped my black jacket.

“Maybe you should follow your own advice,” I said, “and introduce some color into your artwork.”

“And give the shrinks more to study?” She smirked. “I think not.”

“Do you dream in black and white?”

“Do you?”

“I’m not sure I dream.”

“Maybe that’s a perk of your condition. I dream plenty. Mostly bloodred. Only difference is sometimes I’m the one with the knife and sometimes it’s dear old Dad.”

She stared at me, eyes suddenly flat, like a shark’s, but I knew better than to take the bait.

“You should keep a journal of your dreams,” I advised.

“What the fuck do you think my artwork is?”

“A disturbing explosion of deep-seated violence.”

She laughed, and on that note, I headed out the door, leaving her behind.

“She okay?” I asked a minute later, following Officer Maria down the corridor. There were no visiting hours for the general population on Monday, so the halls were relatively quiet.

“Not sure. You know it’s nearly the thirtieth anniversary.”

I gazed at the CO blankly.

“Shana’s first victim,” Officer Maria filled in. “The twelve-year-old neighbor, Donnie Johnson? Shana killed him thirty years ago next week. Some local reporter has been calling for an interview.”

I blinked. Somehow, I’d managed not to connect those dots. As both a therapist and a woman dedicated to self-management, later I’d have to ask myself why. What pain was I trying to avoid? A moment of ironic self-reflection.