by Lisa Gardner
“He killed himself,” D.D. said.
“Not exactly. According to Shana, our mother did it. Harry climbed into the tub, handed her the razor, and she did the deed. While Shana watched. Can you imagine how traumatic that must have been for a four-year-old girl? Literally, a defining moment in her development. Anything related to that, any kind of reenactment of that scenario, would hit a person such as my sister like a mental hammer.”
“Wait a second.” D.D. held up a hand. “Are you saying you think that’s what Shana saw that night? A girl attacking Donnie? Like your mother with your father all those years ago?”
“I think something like that definitely would’ve been powerful enough to trigger a psychotic episode.”
“A female killer,” D.D. murmured, “becoming, thirty years later, a female serial killer.”
“So what was the answer?” Phil asked with a frown. “What did your sister say?”
“I never got an answer. I said Donnie’s name and . . . all hell broke loose. Sirens went off, men were shouting. And Shana jumped me. Just like that.”
Adeline blinked, still appearing faintly surprised.
“She cut you pretty bad,” D.D. said.
“She had to. Otherwise no one would mistake me for her.”
“Still defending her?”
“I’m alive. In Shana’s world, that’s showing restraint.”
D.D. shook her head.
“Where do you think your sister would go?” Phil asked.
“I don’t know. She hasn’t been out in the world in nearly thirty years. Frankly . . . I would consider her vulnerable. Finding me would have made some sense, but given she slashed me in return for her freedom . . . I’m sure she understands I’m not likely to assist her now.”
“We think she had help,” D.D. challenged.
“She doesn’t have any friends.”
“But she has a fan. The Rose Killer.”
For the first time, Adeline faltered. “No,” she breathed, but the word didn’t come out strong enough.
“Shana and the Rose Killer,” D.D. said. “The Rose Killer and Shana. Now, where would those two crazy homicidal maniacs go for fun?”
Then, in the next instant, she didn’t have to ask Adeline anymore; she already had a hunch. They’d go back to the beginning. To where this had all started, thirty years ago.
She turned quickly to Phil.
“Mrs. Davies’s house,” she stated urgently. “The old neighborhood.”
Chapter 34
SUPERINTENDENT MCKINNON INSISTED on driving me to a car rental agency. The police had already impounded my vehicle, she informed me. Given that it would now be processed as a crime scene, no telling when I’d get it back. Or if.
We drove over in awkward silence. Myself, thinking of all the things I couldn’t reveal. And McKinnon with an intent look on her face that was hard to read. As if she had her own secrets she didn’t trust herself to speak.
It occurred to me that in all the years we’d been working together to best manage my sister, the superintendent and I had become more than colleagues; we’d become friends. I wondered if Officer Maria Lopez or Chris or Bob thought the same. I wondered what it would do to them when, if, they discovered I was the one who’d broken my sister out of prison. I was the one who’d betrayed their trust.
I thought I should say something. An outreach of sorts, a cryptic apology she might not understand now but that might give her comfort later. But then she turned and looked at me with such blazing dark eyes I couldn’t help but lean away.
“A smart woman would change her locks, Adeline,” she stated, her tone less helpful than challenging. “Are you a smart woman?”
I didn’t answer.
“A smarter woman would go on vacation. Say, to Bermuda. Someplace far, far away from here.”
“If my sister wanted to hurt me, I’d already be dead,” I replied steadily.
She eyed me with that intent expression again. “You’re assuming your sister is all you have to fear.”
“What do you mean?” I asked sharply.
But she’d turned away, was watching the road, and we didn’t speak again.
At the car agency, the desk clerk took one look at my heavily bandaged face, my oven mitt of a left hand and immediately recoiled. McKinnon, however, wasn’t having any of it. She started barking commands, and in twenty minutes or less I had a midsize sedan in deep blue.
“I’ll follow you home,” she announced briskly. “Help get you settled.”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I just need rest.”
“Can you even open your front door with that thing? Work a key, undo a lock?” She gestured to my heavily wrapped and padded left hand, which looked more like a baseball glove than a body part. “Let alone drive the car, change into comfortable clothes, fix yourself some food.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Adeline—”
“Kimberly.”
She huffed at the rare use of her first name. She tried her stern glare again. Then, when that didn’t work: “Don’t take this the wrong way, Adeline. But when it comes to Shana, you can be a damn fool.”
I touched the bandages on my face. “And this is my punishment?”
“I’m not saying that. Shana is clearly the one in the wrong here, but . . . You are her sister. And you seem determined to find some good in her, whether any exists or not.”
“Duly noted.”
“I’ve supervised her for nearly ten years, remember. You’re not the only one who knows her, who can anticipate her every move. I’ll come with you to your apartment. Between the two of us, she’ll never stand a chance.”
An offer of help, graciously given. But McKinnon’s eyes were overbright again, making me uncomfortable. A wronged prison superintendent’s zealous desire to make things right, correct the one inmate who’d gotten the better of her? Or something more? Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on yet.
“I’ll change my locks, first thing, I promise.”
McKinnon scowled, studied me harder.
And I started to think of things I didn’t want to think. D.D.’s growing conviction that the Rose Killer might be female. And that my sister couldn’t have been in contact with someone outside the prison; whereas, someone inside those same walls, say, a fellow inmate, or a corrections officer, or even the prison superintendent . . .
“I need to go. I need to rest.”
McKinnon hesitated, expression still inscrutable.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“What about that vacation?”
“I’ll take it into consideration.”
“You’ll keep me posted?”
“Of course,” I lied.
“If you need help, Adeline, please don’t hesitate to call. I realize our relationship has always been about Shana, but given the number of years . . . If you need anything,” McKinnon finished stiffly, “I’d be honored to assist.”
“If it’s any consolation,” I said, already moving toward the rental car, “I doubt Shana’s enjoying her freedom right now. After thirty years behind bars, I imagine she’s feeling mostly overwhelmed if not downright anxious.”
The superintendent grunted, dropping back, giving us both space to breathe. “I can take some solace in that. But I’d take even more solace in a SWAT team nailing her sorry ass.”
My turn to smile, but it felt strange, my skin rubbing against the rough bandages.
“Kimberly,” I heard myself say, hand on the car door.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. For this morning. For all that my sister’s put you through. For . . . everything.”
“Not your apology to make.”
I smiled again and thought that for someone who didn’t feel pain, the sensation in my chest felt c
uriously like a slow, aching burn.
I made it back to my high-rise building, parking the rental car in the subterranean lot. I’d driven around the block three times first, counting four police cruisers in the vicinity, three Boston, one state. My condo would remain under watch for the near future, I figured, which made it imperative to plan ahead for what would happen next.
I entered my unit carefully, not sure what I feared the most: detectives, crime scene techs or the Rose Killer him- or herself.
I found only empty rooms. For the moment, the police still considered me a victim. They were watching my building for a sign of my sister’s approach but didn’t yet have reason to intrude upon my personal space, given the last sighting of Shana had been roughly twenty miles south of here and they considered her on foot.
Shana couldn’t drive. I’d forgotten about that. Which immediately made me wonder what other details I’d screwed up.
I conducted a quick search of my entire condo. The cameras were still in place, masking tape over the lenses. So the Rose Killer had not yet had the opportunity to fetch his or her toys. Too busy stalking the next woman? Or simply savoring this lull in the storm before descending and wreaking havoc on my life again?
I wasn’t afraid anymore. Mostly, I just wished the Rose Killer would hurry up and get it over with.
In the bathroom, I carefully removed the taped patches of gauze from my face. No time like the present. I took a deep breath. Looked up. Stared.
If the white bandages had seemed conspicuous, then the bloody patchwork quilt that was currently my visage was beyond shocking. Six, seven, eight, bright red lines. Across my forehead. Slashing down over my right eye. Across my nose, down both cheeks, a jagged gash slicing across my chin. I looked like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster; not a real woman but a macabre imitation sewn together with random pieces of skin.
And yet . . . I fingered one shiny red line, then another. Only three of the cuts had required stitches, and then only in certain places. The majority of the damage, true to Shana’s word, was superficial. The doctors had cleaned the wounds, then coated them with a skin adhesive to aid in healing.
No, the far greater damage was to my left hand. And I’d done that myself, most likely while sawing through Shana’s wrist restraints.
My sister had done as she’d promised. Didn’t that mean something? Honor among thieves and all that.
No going back, I informed the woman in the mirror. No going back.
I would’ve liked to shower, but I wasn’t supposed to get my hand or face wet. I settled for a sponge bath, the best I could do with only my right hand. Then I awkwardly pulled on a loose-fitting pair of jeans, plain cable-knit sweater.
Fortified, I crossed to my closet. I had a safe in the back where I stored my nicer pieces of jewelry. Now I opened it and pulled out a phone. A prepaid cell, the twin of the same phone I’d left for my sister in my purse. I’d memorized her number first thing this morning. Now I dialed it.
The phone rang. Two, three, four, five, six times.
Just when I was beginning to panic, my sister picked up.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Fanueil Hall.”
“Faneuil Hall? How did you get there?”
“I can’t drive,” she said, voice flat.
“Then how?”
“Guy stopped. Saw the car broken down, offered me a ride. I’d cleaned my face,” she said, as if this explained everything.
I couldn’t help myself: “And this man, is he . . .”
“I didn’t kill him.” For the first time, I caught exasperation in her voice. “I didn’t know where to go. I said Boston. He brought me here. It’s crowded. I’m blending in.”
“Cops?”
“Not bad.”
Most likely because they were currently focusing their efforts elsewhere.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I told my sister. “I’ll find you at the Starbucks. That’s the coffeehouse at the end of the food court.”
“I know what Starbucks is,” she said, exasperated again.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were such a connoisseur of nonprison foods.”
“Fuck off,” she said, but her voice lacked heat.
I couldn’t help myself; I smiled. For a moment, we sounded almost like sisters. I hung up the phone, retrieved the largest sunglasses I could find to help disguise my savaged face, then went downstairs to hail a cab.
• • •
I WALKED RIGHT BY Shana the first time. Slender, middle-aged guy in jeans and a plaid shirt sitting casually at a table. No reason for a second glance. It wasn’t until I’d perused the entire crowded space that I realized my error. Why that one person stuck out from all the others I’d seen.
When I returned to the table, Shana was smiling at me.
“I did good,” she said, with a trace of genuine pride.
She had done good. She’d done great. Gone were the long, lank locks. She’d shorn her hair right off, a boyish cut that changed the lines of her face, made her appear more youthful as well as masculine, given her slightly broader shoulders, flat chest and nonexistent hips. I’d packed sweats, but she must have used some of the money to buy new clothes, because she sported a pair of distressed jeans as well as a button-up flannel shirt. She could’ve been an ad for Gap or Old Navy. The earth-tone plaid suited her complexion better than bright orange ever did, but she’d also played with the makeup. Foundation, I would guess. Maybe some powder. Enough to even out her skin, take years off her age.
I felt as if I was in some perverse makeover show. How to look twenty years younger and no longer incarcerated!
She had a baseball cap in front of her on the table, as well as a cup of coffee; the duffel bag I’d left for her in my car decorated her feet.
I took a seat across from her, feeling dowdy in my hastily thrown-on clothes, conspicuous with my injured hand and face. We wouldn’t be able to linger here. We wouldn’t be able to linger anywhere without commanding attention.
My sister took a sip of coffee. On the table, she was rhythmically tapping the fingers of her left hand, a sign she wasn’t as calm as she was trying to appear.
“How is it?” I asked, gesturing toward her drink.
She grimaced. “Tastes like cat pee. And impossible to order. Some kid in line yelled at me.”
“Starbucks is a cultural thing. You’ll get used to it.”
She grimaced again, set down the cup. Picked up the hat, twisted it in her hands.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Is there anything special you want to do? Something you’ve dreamed about all these years?”
She regarded me funny. “Adeline, I was a lifer. Lifers don’t dream. We don’t have someday.”
“But is it as you remembered, the outside world?”
“Kinda.” She shrugged. “Louder. Crazier. Like the memories were faded, now here’s the real deal.”
“It’s overwhelming.”
She shrugged again, striving for nonchalance, while continuing to twist the hat. From thirty years in solitary to midday in downtown Boston. It would be too much for most people.
“You could go,” I said evenly. “Leave me. Just walk away.”
My sister didn’t take the bait. Instead, it was her turn to regard me steadily. “Go where? With who? To do what? I don’t know how to drive. I’ve never held a job. I don’t know how you find an apartment or house, let alone how to cook a meal. For most of my life, the state has taken care of me. I think I’m a little old to change that now.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. My theme for the day.
“Why? None of it had anything to do with you. What happened, happened. Aren’t you the professional shrink? Because sometimes, you seem a little dense to me.”
“You’ll help me?” I asked. Because now that she w
as on the outside, I wasn’t so sure.
“I checked out my pressing social calendar. Looks like I can squeeze in one confrontation with a serial killer today. But that’s it. Any more killers, and we’re gonna have to negotiate payment terms. Hell, maybe I’m employable after all.”
“You seriously don’t know who the Rose Killer is?”
“No.”
“You haven’t been talking to anyone?”
She gave me a look.
“The killer came to my condo last night,” I whispered. “Brought me a present. Three mason jars filled with human skin.”
My sister didn’t even blink. “Why would the killer think you’d like something like that?”
I didn’t say anything. I could’ve, but I didn’t.
“Scared, Adeline?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Never. Don’t even understand the emotion. You can’t feel pain. Seems you should be fearless, too.”
“I have nightmares sometimes. I’m in a very dark place. All I can see is a strip of yellow light. And I’m terrified. I wake up screaming every time. It puzzled my adoptive father for years. That a girl who couldn’t feel pain could still experience fear.”
“You dream of the closet,” my sister said.
“I think so.”
“Well, then, you do have things to fear. Adeline, I don’t want to talk about the past. You started this game. I sure hope it wasn’t just for a trip down memory lane.”
“I need you to do as you promised; I need you to protect me.”
She looked at my cut-up face, and even I got the irony. But then she shrugged and went with a breezy, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“And afterward . . .”
“You’ll give me the one thing I’ve always wanted,” my sister mused, and for once, I could catch the wistfulness in her voice.
This was the trick to managing my sister. You could want love and loyalty. But far more reliable was to appeal to her basic narcissism. Assure her there was something in it for herself. My sister, who after thirty years of institutionalization, would never make it in the real world.