Pessimistic? Preparing for the worst? My adoptive father had been right; just because I didn’t feel pain didn’t mean my family couldn’t hurt me.My sister knew something. The interview request, the Boston detective’s questions, none of them surprised her. That was my biggest impression from the morning. The police could pat themselves on the back, even congratulate me for getting Shana to “volunteer” the mystery number 153. But I knew my sister better than that. This was a game for her. And she had willingly shown up to play, which already told me it was her match after all. We were the ones catching up.I’d been honest; I didn’t know what 153 meant. But Shana did, and if she said we would be letting her out of prison in the morning, at which time she’d be staying in my condo, sleeping in my bed and wearing my clothes, I believed her. The prediction was too specific to simply dismiss.And it terrified me.Formaldehyde. I possessed an entire collection of vials filled with the preserving agent and single strips of skin.
