“I’m not sure. It’s been a few days.” I thought back, trying to remember the guy in the padded flannel shirt, the one I’d followed to the nest. “He had, uh, really long fingernails? And his face was dirty.”

DiNapoli’s lips formed a tight line. He reached down and pulled a picture from his briefcase. “This the guy?”

It was a mug shot, but not of the flannel-wearing Mazikin. It was Nick. “No,” I whispered, feeling like my chest had been torn open. “That’s not him. The guy who attacked me was older.”

The detective watched me carefully. As I fought to get myself under control, he pulled out another photo. “How about this one?”

It was the Mazikin. The one Malachi had stabbed. Dark, greasy hair around a stubbly face. “That might be him,” I murmured.

“We found these guys in the basement of that burned-out house on Garden Street, and this one”—he pointed at Nick’s face—“was lying on top of your phone, Ms. Santos. We identified him using fingerprints and dental records this morning. The house is only about ten blocks from the shelter you were at.”

Diane let out a disgusted noise. “Shouldn’t have let you go,” she said, making that mm-mm-mm of disapproval.

“They died in the fire?” I asked, trying to sound sincerely confused.

DiNapoli stared at me. “No, ma’am, they did not.”

CRAP. “Oh,” I said in a small voice. “That’s what they said on the news.”

His eyes narrowed. “No, the news reported that the bodies were found in the building. We did not release cause of death.” His fingers spun the picture of the Mazikin on the table as his gaze slid down the hall. “Do you own any weapons, Ms. Santos?” All I saw was red as I thought of the black leather belt under my bed, to which was clipped an empty sheath. I swallowed hard, wondering if the next thing the officer was going to whip out was my knife.

Diane was next to me before I could open my mouth to answer him, moving faster than I’d ever believe possible for someone of her significant girth. “Excuse me, Detective. Now I’m going to have to ask you to explain your line of thinking.”

She put her hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth with panic-flavored superglue.

“Diane, they found Lela’s phone at the scene of a murder,” said Nancy, stepping forward and crossing her arms across her chest.