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