His eyes widened. I’d called his bluff, and for the first time, he appeared uncertain. His shoulders came down, expression puzzled. I could nearly watch the wheels spin in his head as he rapidly reassessed. Then he steeled himself and I caught his look of resolve once again. One way or another, he was determined to speak to me. Because my sister had repeatedly blown him off? Because I was as close to her as he was going to get? Or then again, was there something darker, more potent, driving him?

“Were you relieved the prison guards got to her in time this morning?” he asked, going with a friendlier tone as if we were neighbors, meeting over coffee. “Or maybe a tad disappointed? You can tell me the truth, Adeline. I mean, a woman as accomplished as you, saddled with a sister as troubled as Shana. People understand these things. I’ll understand.”

“How are your aunt and uncle?” I asked quietly. “The thirty-year anniversary of their son’s murder I imagine must be very difficult for them.”

Sgarzi’s face froze. For all his efforts, I’d hit the mark first, and he knew it. A spasm moved across his face. Faint but telling. And I got it then, the undercurrent of emotion swirling around the man as tangibly as his reporter’s trench coat: grief. Charlie Sgarzi wasn’t angry. He was grieving. Thirty years later, that night, my sister, still haunted him.

I felt myself falter.

“They’re dead, thanks for asking.” His voice, once again matter-of-fact.

“And your own family?”

“I’m not here about them. I’m here about your family. Stop avoiding the question.”

“My question is equally relevant. I didn’t know my sister when she killed your cousin. But you did. Meaning chances are my sister’s actions have had a greater impact on your life than on my own.”

“Donnie was a good kid.”

I waited.

“He liked her, you know. She ever tell you that? During your sessions together, does she even talk about him?”

I remained patient. Charlie was just getting started. Sure enough . . .

“I found letters!” the reporter nearly exploded, his expression suddenly coming alive. Rage, sorrow, disbelief. Stages of grief, stamped into a man thirty years later, because pain can do that to a person. My sister can do that to a person. “Half a dozen letters I discovered stashed in the bottom of my uncle’s bureau, and you know what they are? Love letters. Love letters your sister wrote to my cousin. He was twelve years old, just a lonely little guy without a friend in the world, and here comes this older, streetwise new girl saying what a cool bike he has, maybe they can get together sometime. Course he met her by the lilac bushes. She didn’t just murder him. She lured him to his death.”