by Lisa Gardner
“What happened that night?” D.D. asked, though at this stage, she figured she knew.
“Shana was becoming more . . . freakish. I mean, in the beginning, I’d never met a girl so frank about sex. When she wanted it, she wanted it. No apologies, no pretenses. Hell, she started the whole thing by turning to me one day and asking me if I wanted to fuck. So we did.
“But then I heard about Mrs. Davies, her foster mom, catching her with Samuel, not once, but twice, and that started to creep me out a bit. How many boys in the neighborhood was she screwing? Not like she’d say. So I decided it was time to cool things off. We were supposed to meet that evening. Five o’clock, at the lilac bushes. Maybe hang out, grab a pizza.
“I asked Donnie to meet her instead.” Charlie paused. His voice had grown thick. He swallowed, continued. “I asked Donnie to, um, break things off.”
“You sent your twelve-year-old cousin to break up with your fuck buddy?” D.D. asked, voice incredulous.
Charlie Sgarzi gazed down at the dark pavement. “Yes.”
“And then?”
“She killed him.” Charlie looked up. “I was stupid. Sent my cousin to do what I didn’t have the courage to do, and she got mad and killed him. Then my aunt drank herself to death, and my uncle swallowed his own gun, and my parents fell apart. ’Cause I was a coward. Spent all my time trying to look so tough, when in the end, I was simply an asshole. And everyone I loved paid the price.”
“You didn’t see anything that night?” Phil pressed.
“Wasn’t even in the neighborhood. Had met up with some buddies of mine and hightailed it over to the mini-mart. Wanted to be far away . . . just in case.”
“That’s why you’re working on the book, isn’t it?” Adeline asked quietly. “Because it’s finally time to tell the truth.”
A muscle twitched in Charlie’s jaw. “Probably. I hadn’t gotten that far with confronting myself. But yeah, I figure there’s a reason I decided to write the book after my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer; I’d never want to embarrass her while she was still alive. But if I coulda gotten the advance now, to help out with her care. Then finish up the book . . . afterward. I could tell the truth. Just . . . lay it all out there. No one to hurt but me, and who the hell knows, maybe the truth can set a man free.
“I don’t sleep so well at night,” he finished up softly. “I mean, it’s been thirty fucking years, and I still can’t fall asleep without having nightmares of Shana prancing around with my cousin’s bloody ear. I’m an asshole. I know that, okay? But she’s still the monster here.”
“Who did she hang out with back then?” Phil asked. “Other than you?”
“Sam, of course. He was into her, too. And not in a good way. He, like, actually thought they were an item. Boyfriend, girlfriend, long-lost souls. At least I was never that crazy.”
“Anyone else?”
“One of my friends, Steven, had an older brother, Shep. Rumor was, Shana and Shep would hook up, smoke dope. Shana wasn’t one to talk. She more like demanded. I want. I need. When you’re a fourteen-year-old boy and the demand in question is sex, you don’t think much of it. But in hindsight . . . She was scary. None of us mattered. It was always just about her. Until I said no. At which point, apparently she lost it. Maybe no one had ever told her no before.”
“Did you really release the details of your mother’s death in your blog?” D.D. asked.
“The public has a right to know.” Charlie’s voice grew heated. “You’re holding things back. Like, the whole social engineering. And Shana Day having some kind of connection to this new killing machine. Three women are dead in seven weeks. And you don’t even have a suspect.”
“I thought we were supposed to arrest Shana Day,” D.D. said innocently.
“Fuck off!” Charlie informed her. “I realize she’s already behind bars and there’s nothing more you can do to her. But maybe if the killer understands you got the connection, he’ll spook, or drop all contact, or go underground or something. . . .”
“None of which helps us catch him.”
“Well, it might save some lives!”
“Grieve,” Phil ordered the man. “Give yourself a day or two to be Janet Sgarzi’s son. While you do that, we’ll do our jobs. Then we’ll talk again. But giving away our case in the paper—”
“Internet.”
“Whatever. Doesn’t help us. We’re making progress. We’re closing in on a suspect.”
“Can I quote you?” Charlie perked up.
“Nope, because you’re honoring your mother, remember?”
Phil escorted Charlie back to the crowd, which had grown quiet in his absence.
Standing alone with Adeline, D.D. stuck her right hand in her pocket for warmth.
“Still think your sister didn’t kill Donnie Johnson?” she asked Adeline.
The doctor didn’t say a word.
Chapter 30
I RETURNED TO MY CONDO tired and worn-out. What I wanted most was to kick off my shoes, pour a large glass of wine and stare at a blank wall till the whirlwind of fresh revelations and old fears regarding my sister finally quieted in my mind.
What I discovered was my front door, unlocked and slightly ajar.
I froze in the hall, my grip tightening unconsciously on my purse.
I didn’t have friends or associates. No neighbor had an emergency key to my place. No, in Charlie Sgarzi’s lexicon, fuck buddies had ever met me here.
The Rose Killer.
I stepped back, got out my cell phone and dialed the front desk. Mr. Daniels was on duty.
“Did you let anyone up to my unit?” I inquired. “Maybe a deliveryman, or a long-lost friend.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” he assured me. “I got the message loud and clear after the gas company man . . . woman . . . person. All requests should be run by you first. It’s been a busy day, of course, with guests for other units, a new tenant moving in and a couple of prospective buyers. But no one for you, Dr. Glen. I would’ve directly contacted you if that’d been the case. You have my word.”
I said thank you, then hung up. Multiple guests, prospective buyers requesting tours. Any of them would serve as adequate coverage for the Rose Killer. Requesting my specific condo a second time would’ve drawn suspicion; whereas, requesting to visit an apartment, say, one floor above mine, just a quick stairwell hike away, would work just as well. Or going on a tour . . . Can I have a moment alone, maybe walk around the building? I’d just like to get a feel for the place. Then make a quiet sprint for my condo.
I should call Detective D. D. Warren. Take her up on her offer of police protection.
Instead, I pushed the door and let it fall open into the dark, hushed space.
“Honey,” I called out, barely a warble in my voice, “I’m home.”
I snapped on the main light, illuminating the broad sweep of living space. The front door of my apartment opened into a tiled foyer, kitchen to the left, open door to the master bedroom straight ahead, family room to the right. My low-slung black leather sofa appeared the same as always, not a single accent pillow out of place.
I stepped into my condo, left hand on my purse strap, right hand still clutching my cell phone.
The Rose Killer attacked sleeping women, or a cancer-ravaged elderly woman. No direct confrontation but a game of finesse. Watching and scheming behind the victim’s back. Then, the final ambush, armed with chloroform.
Well, I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t elderly. And I’d be damned before I let some murderer scare me out of my own home. I’d been born into a family of worse predators, and I knew it.
Snapping on more lights. Moving toward the kitchen with my back to the wall and my gaze on open territory. Nothing appeared amiss. My sleek furniture, modern décor, offering the same upscale comfort as before.
I should get a weapon. Maybe retr
ieve a baseball bat or a golf club from my hall closet, except being a woman who’d spent her life avoiding athletics, I didn’t have either one. I could grab a knife from the kitchen. The proverbial butcher’s blade to carry around like the plucky heroine in some horror movie. Only I didn’t trust myself with knives. It would be too easy to cut myself and never know it.
Like the three cat scratches I now bore on my wrist, after it had been nice to sit with a cat on my lap for a change. The soothing hum of its purr. The soft feel of its fur. I’d actually enjoyed the moment, even thought maybe I should get a kitten.
Right up till I walked outside and D.D. announced I was bleeding.
A cat, for God’s sake. All these years later, I still couldn’t even trust the comfort of a goddamn kitty.
And suddenly, I was pissed off. At my gene pool, which had cursed me with a condition that would forever set me apart. Until I spent my days with patients suffering from the one sensation I would give anything to feel. Because there was no Melvin in my life to keep me safe. Meaning I had to say no to everything. Hobbies, walks on the beach. Love. Kids. Kittens.
I lived like a shrink-wrapped toy, forever on a shelf, never taken down to be used and enjoyed, in order to avoid breaking.
I didn’t want to be a toy. I wanted to be a person. A real, live person. With cuts and bruises and battle scars and a broken heart. Someone who lived and laughed and hurt and healed.
I might as well wish for the moon. What was, was. What you couldn’t change, the intelligent, high-functioning person learned to accept.
I looked around my shadowed apartment, and it occurred to me that for once, my unique condition might be my best self-defense. Ambush relied on stunning your victim with an unexpected attack that delivered disabling amounts of pain. But I didn’t feel any pain. The Rose Killer could clock me over the head, punch my stomach, twist an arm. None of it would do my attacker any good. I would just keep coming, no longer my family’s conscience, but now its vengeance, as I chased a killer around my own home with my dark, unblinking eyes.
I checked the pantry. The hall closet. The lavette. Finally, my bedroom. A flip of a switch. My king-size bed coming into view, my gaze dashing immediately to the nightstand . . .
Nothing.
No champagne, no roses, nor fur-lined handcuffs. Not even the rumpled shape of another person’s body having laid upon the mattress.
I frowned. Not much left to check. The walk-in closet, the sprawling master bath . . .
Nothing.
The Rose Killer had been here. I didn’t doubt that. Whether to satiate curiosity or stoke obsession, I had no idea. But the Rose Killer had walked through my condo, maybe rifling my delicates, checking out my favorite foods, before exiting, leaving the front door open just to show off.
I conducted a second sweep of my unit, footsteps steadier, gaze more focused.
After the second pass failed to reveal any monsters lurking under the bed or masked intruders tucked inside a closet, I finally set down my purse, sank down on the edge of my bed and released the breath I hadn’t even been aware I’d been holding.
The Rose Killer had come to see me again. Just as my sister had predicted. This monster, somehow tied to my sister and a thirty-year-old murder.
I didn’t know what to think anymore. If I’d been capable of it, I imagine I would’ve had a headache. Instead, I was tired deep down to my core, as if I couldn’t think another thought, take another step.
Then it occurred to me that the killer had probably sat on my bed. Maybe even laid his or her head upon my pillow, just to see what it would feel like.
I got up, stripped off the top covers, then my sheets. I carried the first bundle down the hall to the stacked washer and dryer. I went heavy on the detergent and even heavier on the bleach.
Then it was into the master bath, where I finally confronted myself in the mirror. I looked paler than I had just this morning. Features gaunter, eyes shadowed. I looked more like my sister. Jail life, living in fear, apparently had the same effect on people.
I switched my attention to my wrist, the three gouges I’d treated in Detective Phil’s vehicle. The scratches appeared shallow, the skin not too ragged around the edges. The wound remained slightly inflamed; I would need to monitor my temperature to help protect against an infection. Now I unbuttoned my fuchsia cardigan to reveal a thin white shell beneath. Then I removed the shell as well, taking in the pale expanse of my shoulders, arms and stomach. I pivoted, this way and that.
A bruise. I didn’t know how, let alone when, but a bruise darkened the back of my left arm. And another abrasion, just above the waistline of my slacks. The cat? Myself carelessly brushing against random sharp objects?
Things I would never know. I just got to log the damage, not necessarily identify the source.
I stepped out of my slacks, letting them puddle to the floor. I found another bruise, this one on the inside of my right thigh. Apparently, playing with two cops wasn’t great for one’s physical well-being.
My fingers ran slowly through my hair, checking my scalp. Then I felt each joint, testing for swelling, because maybe I’d stepped funny off a curb or twisted my ankle getting into a car. I finished by checking my eyes in a magnified mirror, then taking my temperature. The final few checks were fine. Other than the fact a serial killer was stalking me, I was good to go.
I belted on a long silk robe, then plodded out to the kitchen. Went ahead with that giant glass of wine. Then I stared at my front door and realized I’d never be able to sleep like this. If the Rose Killer had picked the lock once, he or she could do it again. Or maybe it hadn’t even been that hard; maybe the killer already had a copy of my key. Why not? The killer already seemed to know everything about me.
I was too tired to call a locksmith, so I settled for wedging a chair beneath the handle. Then, feeling vindictive, I covered the floor with round glass Christmas ornaments, like the boy had done in that Home Alone movie. If it had worked for him, why not me?
Empowered, I took my glass of wine and retreated to the master bath, where I indulged in a temperate shower, the glowing red numbers of the thermostat’s digital display assuring me I wouldn’t burn.
Then, at long last, I finally confronted the biggest question of the day, the true cause behind my rage and restlessness.
Hurricane Shana.
My big sister. Who claimed she’d taken me out of the closet, so many years ago, and held me close.
Because if you don’t have family, you don’t have anything at all.
I wanted her to love me. It was terrible. Illogical. Weak. Frail sentiment from a woman who knew better.
And yet I did.
When she’d talked of that last moment we’d had together in our parents’ house . . . For a moment, I could almost remember it. The sound of shouting men, pounding against the door. My father’s voice in the bathroom, my mother’s hushed reply.
Then Shana. My big sister coming for me. My big sister picking me up in her arms. My big sister telling me she loved me and would always keep me safe.
I loved her, too.
The water seemed thicker on my cheeks. Was I crying? Would there be any point? The four-year-old child who’d existed forty years ago was not the same woman incarcerated now. Grown-up Shana used people. Destroyed Mr. and Mrs. Davies’s lives, let alone the Johnsons’ and the Sgarzis’. And what about the other children who’d been in the home? Mrs. Davies had been right. Chances were, little Trevor had gotten shipped out to some terrible place where he’d been beaten or raped or otherwise corrupted by the relentless hopelessness of foster life, while pretty AnaRose had been pimped out to earn money for her mother’s desperate habit.
And Shana never even mentioned their names. Entire families, vanquished by her actions. It was as if they no longer existed for her. Because they didn’t. She had needed. She had wanted. Then she was done.
I pulled myself together, shutting off the shower.
This morning, my sister had gotten to me, because that was what she did best. I showed up to break up with her, as she put it, and suddenly she had this story she’d never told me once in twenty years. Standing there, listening to her talk, I’d been swept up in her spell. Just as that first prison guard, Frankie, or maybe the second one, Rich.
She was manipulative. Not being able to feel sentiment herself, she suffered no blinders when it came to human nature. She could observe, analyze, collect. The perfect predator.
And Donnie Johnson, thirty years ago, trudging to the lilac bushes to deliver his older cousin’s message? Had he been scared that night? Nervous about Shana’s reaction? Or at twelve, had he been too young to fully comprehend the dangers of breaking a teenage girl’s heart?
Right until her face had changed into a snarl. And she’d turned on him, lashing out with a knife. Impulsive. Wild. She was angry, and so she acted enraged.
My sister, who weaved a story to make me stay. Who talked at least two, if not three, men into their own deaths.
I frowned, finding a towel, drying myself off.
Words. Those were my sister’s weapon as well. And no less dangerous. But, if you were into patterns—and psychiatrists loved patterns—my sister’s MO was to talk first. Engage. Seduce. Coerce the desired behavior.
If she could do that with trained guards, why would she not have tried that first on a twelve-year-old boy? Sold him some story devised to make him fetch Charlie for her right away. She was sick, she needed Charlie, she wasn’t mad at all; she just needed to give him something back.
She would. I knew it. She would’ve talked to Donnie first. Because my sister wouldn’t have wanted to waste her wrath on the twelve-year-old messenger. No, Charlie had rejected her, and her razor-sharp mind would’ve gone straight there, lasering in on target.
My sister hadn’t killed Donnie Johnson.
Someone else had. But had she seen it? Maybe arrived toward the end of it? A person . . . A girl, I thought, a girl bending over a boy with a blade in her hand, like my mother with my father all those years ago.