The layout of the apartment was familiar, but it felt cleaner and somehow more open than the other two. Soft daylight drifted through the white curtains to brighten a table with a simple brown tablecloth. This was topped with lace doilies, a vase of fresh flowers, a white porcelain wash basin, and a pitcher. The sofa was small, but well stuffed, with a thick quilt draped over it. In the corner sat a wooden rocking chair. The room was cozy and inviting, a striking contrast to the gruesome scene downstairs.

“Have a seat if you like,” said Mona, and I gratefully accepted the invitation. As I sank into the cushions, I became aware of the toll that the morning’s cold sidewalks had taken on my poor feet.

Officer Cane thanked the woman politely but remained standing by the door. In the light of the room, I got a good look at him for the first time. He really was quite young to be a police detective, even a junior one. While he held himself poised and alert, the angle of his dark eyebrows betrayed a hint of insecurity, and he had to periodically straighten his posture, as though actively resisting a natural urge to slink into himself. His eyes caught mine, and he looked away at once. I hurried my own gaze back to Jackaby and the woman.

Miss O’Connor trod gently to the bedroom door. Jackaby followed, pulling the knit cap from his head as he did. I craned my neck to watch as they slipped in. There were two beds in the room on opposite walls, and just enough room for a shared nightstand between them. The nightstand held a dog-eared book and a silver hairbrush. One bed lay empty, its sheets tucked tightly with hospital corners. The other contained a woman with long, white hair. She wore a pale nightgown and was propped up slightly on her pillows. She seemed to be rocking gently, but more I couldn’t see as Mona and Jackaby stepped into the room in front of her.

“We have a guest,” said Mona. “Mr. . . . Jackaby, was it? This is Mrs. Morrigan.”

“Mrs. Morrigan. Of course you are,” said Jackaby, gently. He knelt down beside the figure. “Hello, Mrs. Morrigan. It’s an honor. Can you hear me?”

I shifted across the sofa until I could just see the old woman beyond Jackaby. She was slender and fair-skinned, her hair a medley of silver and white, but it was her face that captured my attention. Her thin, gray eyebrows contorted in a mournful expression. Her lips were thin and taut, and quavered slightly as she drew a deep breath. Then her head fell back, and her mouth opened wide in a tragic pantomime of a scream. My chest tightened in sympathy for the poor, tortured woman.