the faint sliver of light formed along the edge of the door.
And finally succumbed to wave after wave of nameless fear.
How would you feel? What would you do? If you woke up in the middle of the night and found a killer standing in the middle of your bedroom?
“Daddy,” I whispered.
While out in the bedroom, my phone began to ring.
Chapter 23
CHARLIE SGARZI LOOKED DESTROYED. Set jaw, obstinate chin, solid shoulders, all gone. Instead, he sat on his mother’s sofa, a gutted version of his former self, and regarded D.D. and Phil with red-rimmed eyes.
“You don’t understand,” he said thickly. “She never opened her door without first checking the peephole. And she sure as hell wouldn’t let a stranger into the house. Even in broad daylight. When do you think my cousin was killed?”
D.D. nodded. She remembered Sgarzi having said that his mother basically lived as a shut-in.
And yet, sometime roughly between two and four this afternoon, according to the ME’s initial assessment, the Rose Killer had entered Janet Sgarzi’s home. At which point the killer had drugged Charlie’s ninety-pound cancer-ravaged elderly mother, carried her to a back bedroom and proceeded according to plan.
Charlie had discovered the scene shortly after seven, when he’d shown up at the house with dinner. Having Phil’s card from their earlier discussion, he’d dialed the older detective direct. In turn, Phil had summoned Alex to assist with the crime scene analysis and D.D. to serve as an “independent consultant.”
They’d been driving to Alex’s parents’ house to pick up Jack. Instead, they’d turned around, notifying his understanding parents as they’d headed straight to the Rose Killer’s latest crime scene. A tiny, perfectly appointed home in South Boston that reeked of old memories and fresh blood.
“It’s possible the killer poses as a security company employee, pest control, etcetera,” Phil said. “Would your mother have opened her door for a deliveryman, that kind of thing?”
“Why hasn’t that been in the paper?” Sgarzi exploded.
“Because we haven’t found any witnesses to corroborate our theory,” Phil supplied gently. “Right now, it’s just our best guess based on the ease with which the suspect is accessing his victims’ homes. You say your mother was cautious—”
“Yes!”
“Could she have been asleep in the middle of the afternoon?”
“She naps, yeah. Hell, she’s getting near the end now. More bad days than good and nothing the doctors can do . . . I mean, could’ve done. Ah geez. I need a fucking minute, okay?”
The tiny front parlor allowed little space for privacy. Sgarzi stalked over to the fireplace and stood staring at the mantel.
The house reminded D.D. of Sgarzi’s apartment. Small but well kept. Freshly dusted surfaces, vacuumed rugs. She wondered if Janet still maintained her own home or if it was something Sgarzi did for his mom. Most likely the latter, given the woman’s drastically declining health. Just like Sgarzi had brought his mother dinner tonight. Soup from one of her favorite local restaurants, he’d said, as swallowing solid foods was becoming increasingly difficult.
D.D. couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to walk through the door, call his ailing mother’s name and receive no reply. Then, already starting to worry, moving to the back bedroom, only to discover his deepest, darkest fears had never been deep enough or dark enough to picture what he’d found there.
Now Sgarzi’s hands clenched and unclenched spastically down by his sides. D.D. wondered if he was going to punch the brick fireplace or drive his fist through the aged yellow drywall. With obvious effort, the reporter seemed to pull himself together. One last shudder, then he turned, staring at them with a haggard expression.
“Shana Day did this,” he stated, jabbing the air with one finger.
“Now, Charlie,” Phil began.
“Don’t ‘now, Charlie’ me. I’m onto her, and she knows it. I thought I was just sifting through old dirt when I started asking questions about her. Except first thing I learned is that she’s got eyes and ears beyond prison walls. And now she’s using them. Got herself a little killer puppet who can do all the work out here, while Shana sits in her cell pulling the strings. Perfect alibi, right? Shana couldn’t have killed my mother; she’s already locked up! But she did it. She slaughtered my mom to get back at me, and worse, she’s laughing her ass off because she knows there’s nothing you can do about it. This is what thirty years of incarceration has taught her—how to perfect her own goddamn crime.”
“Would your mother have opened the