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confused, until she began to explain.
    “In the days after my sister died, there were all kinds of reports about the awful things she’d done. The murders in the churches, the boys she strung out on heroin, the priest she set up for the Confessional Murders. And the thing that struck me in all those stories was that they said she did it to punish you, Detective Coletti. She blamed you for everything that ever went wrong in her life, but after she died, you never said a word against her, no matter how many times they asked you to.
    “Mary’s mother and my father, on the other hand, did interviews with every network and disowned her in front of the world. I couldn’t blame them, I guess. Every time they showed Mary’s picture on the news, or showed the bodies in the churches, or interviewed the victims’ families, I disowned her a little bit, too. I’d never met her in real life, so I got to know her through those stories, and from what I could see, she was a monster.
    “Then I saw a story about her burial. It was just a two-paragraph sidebar to a New York Post article that rehashed the things she’d done. And in that little sidebar, it said someone had anonymously paid to have her buried in the Fairgrounds Cemetery.
    “I knew her family didn’t do it, and I knew she didn’t have any friends, so I called Mrs. Bailey and asked if she could tell me the name of the person who’d paid for Mary’s burial. She said she couldn’t give me a name, but if I’d agree to come to Philadelphia and talk about the ball, she’d try to arrange for me to meet my sister’s benefactor.”
    Lenore paused as Mann turned to look at Coletti, who was staring into space, as he often did when Mary’s name was mentioned.
    “Maybe it was a coincidence that I chose today to visit,” Lenore said. “Maybe it was chance that you were standing there when I asked Mrs. Bailey to show me where Mary’s grave was. But whether it was chance or not, I know I was meant to meet you today, Detective, because I needed to see that there was at least one person who loved her. The only thing that surprised me was that person turned out to be you.”
    Coletti took a few moments to gather himself, and when he was able to look her in the eye, he spoke.
    “I don’t know if it was chance that you were there today, either,” he said as he looked at Lenore. “You seem to know a lot about me. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
    There was a long silence as Lenore prepared to talk about the subject she hated most—herself.
    “My identity’s always been wrapped up in someone else,” she said softly. “Even after I left Dunmore and went to Princeton on scholarship, I never felt like I was my own person. I was always Sean O’ Hanlon’s daughter, or Mary Smithson’s sister, or John Wilkinson’s wife. I was never just me, and I guess I was always more comfortable that way, because it’s scary being me.”
    She looked from Coletti to Mann and back again. “I’ve always known things about people that they don’t know about themselves. I look at them and the truth just comes to me. Sometimes I share that truth, but mostly I don’t. I’ve learned that people don’t like to hear the truth.”
    “So where does this ability come from?” Mann asked skeptically.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “My mother used to tell me I was born with a veil over my face, so if the old wives’ tales are true, I guess that veil meant I was a seer.”
    “Did you see what was coming today?” Mann asked.
    “I don’t know—I don’t think so. When Mrs. Bailey and I talked last week and arranged for her to meet me at Thirtieth Street Station, the only thing I saw was that I needed to be here. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t question it. I just did what I knew I had to do.”
    “So you felt like you had to be here?” Mann asked.
    “Yes.”
    The detectives looked at each other. Then they stared at Lenore. From the expressions on their faces, she could