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tightened. His eyes lined into that mad-as-a-bull look I'd seen far too many times, and his voice thickened. "She made me do it."
    Cold crept over my arms. "Who made you do what?"
    He glared at me. "It's her fault."
    "Sure. Sure it is."
    "She's so mean to me."
    Who? Lots of people had been mean to my brother.
    "But she won't do it again."
    "Why won't she do it again, Stevie?"
    He leveled an evil grin at me, and my stomach dropped out. "Because I fixed her."
    I licked my lips. Tried to keep my voice quiet, even as my heart hammered. "How did you fix her?"
    He passed his tongue between his lips—and smiled.
    My body went numb. Unbidden, those awful questions rose to the surface—about my brother's whereabouts at the time of the Amaryllis murders. He always claimed he'd been home alone. But who could prove it? My brother had been agitated the day after every one of those murders—and he'd never told me why. And every victim had hired him at some point to do work around their property. The police questioned Stevie after the second murder. He'd been rakin leaves in Sara Fulgerson's yard the day she was killed. But they couldn't pin anything on him, much as they wanted to. At the time I'd convinced myself the cops just wanted the murders "solved" to save their own shaky reputations. And what a way for my ex to get back at me for divorcin him and takin back my maiden name—lock up my brother. I'd fought John Cotter's suspicions—and the Chief's—at every turn. No way would I ever admit I had a few of my own, based on a gut feelin I'd carried around for years—that my unpredictable brother would grow up one day and do somethin really bad.
    "Stevie. How did you fix her?"
    He stood abruptly. "I got to go home."
    I rose and caught his arm. "No, wait—"
    "Leave me alone!" He threw my hand off him.
    "But—"
    "No!" He backed away, wrapped his arms around his chest and self-hugged—like he used to do when he was little. "I don't know nothin, Deena. Don't you say nothin to nobody. Don't you dare."
    My head nodded. "I won't."
    His face darkened. "You tell anybody, I'll hurt you."
    I stared at him.
    "Real bad."
    He'd never threatened me before.
    "You hear me, Deena?"
    "Yeah. Yeah, Stevie, I hear you."
    He headed for the door. I gathered my wits. "Stevie, let me wash your uniform. I can get it a lot cleaner than you will."
    "I know how to wash my own clothes."
    "Come on, Stevie."
    "No!" He whirled around, hand raised. "Leave me alone!"
    I cringed back. He glared at me, then turned again for the door.
    Without another word he left. I stood on my porch and watched him run down the street to his little trailer, two doors away. Back inside my house I relocked and bolted the door.
    Sleep would not come that night.
    I sat up in bed, gun next to me on the covers. Somethin terrible had happened out there. In my heart I knew what it was. But I pushed the knowledge deep down, hopin against hope.
    The next day brought news of Erika's death.
    By the time the wildfire news leapt across town yesterday mornin, I was in the shop, cuttin Ruthann Becker's frizzy hair. When I heard the sirens peel out from the police station, down one block on Main, my veins iced. I dropped the shears and near stabbed my own ankle. Not five minutes later Theodore Stets ran over from the drugstore next door, sayin he heard the squad cars were parked at Erika Hollinger's house.
    Erika, so young. Dead, just like the rest of them.
    "She was mean to me." Stevie's words vibrated in my head. Erika had always been mean to him. Made fun of him unmercifully. I'd caught her at it once a couple years ago and near slapped her. She hadn't set foot in my salon since.
    Now it was Thursday. In the back room of my shop, I felt like my insides had been hollowed out. Stevie hadn't talked to me since Tuesday night. I went down to his trailer this mornin to ask about the uniform. Had it come clean? He wouldn't answer.
    Had anybody heard him bangin on my door? Or