“Blood is love,” I murmured, but Sgarzi wasn’t in the mood to listen anymore. He’d shoved himself away from the wall, pacing restlessly.

“My aunt never got over it. She spent the next ten years drinking herself to death, and there was nothing my mom could do to stop her. Because that’s the lie they tell families of the victims; that it’ll get better. Time heals all wounds. Blah, blah, blah. Thirty years. Thirty fucking years, and six months ago, my uncle got out his service revolver and shot himself in the head. Your sister didn’t just kill my cousin. She destroyed my entire family. Now I have a few questions. Think you can pay me the courtesy of answering?”

“Why?”

“Why?” He stared at me, dark face nearly frozen in shock. “Why?”

“It’s been thirty years, Mr. Sgarzi,” I said gently. “There is nothing I can tell you that changes what happened to your family.”

“Please. I know my cousin is dead. I know my aunt and uncle are gone and my mom has turned into a shut-in who won’t even order takeout pizza because you never know about those delivery boys. I want access, okay? I want an exclusive interview with one of the most notorious female killers in the state of Massachusetts. After what Shana did to my cousin, hacking off his ear, slicing up his arms . . . At the very least, I think I deserve a seven-figure book deal. Maybe then, we’ll call it even.”

Despite myself, I was surprised: “You’re cashing in on your cousin’s murder?”

“No. I’m funding my mother’s home health aid. My mom’s dying of cancer, thank you very much, and she doesn’t want to leave the house my father built for her. I’m a blogger; I don’t make the kind of money my mom needs. But a book deal. An inside account of your sister, what she did to my family . . . There’s a decent-size market for true-crime novels. Especially something with a personal touch, say, written by the victim’s cousin and including an exclusive interview with a killer as notorious as Shana Day. I’ve been fishing the idea around publishing circles, and there’s some interest. Let’s just say, thirty minutes of your sister’s time, one-on-one, and my mom just might be able to die in comfort. My cousin was a good kid. He wouldn’t mind helping out his aunt. Now, what’s your excuse?”

“Mr. Sgarzi, you’re assuming my sister listens to me. That having ignored your persistent written requests, Shana will magically change her mind on my say-so. To be blunt, we don’t have that kind of relationship.”

Charlie got that look again, all steely resolve and grim determination. Not just a man grieving, I realized now, but given his mother’s deteriorating health, a man very much on edge.

“Manipulate her,” he said.