The victim had been Rowan White, Gretchen’s aunt. And the killer, in Shaughnessy’s mind, had always been Gretchen. He’d just never been able to actually pin it on her. To be fair to Shaughnessy—not that she frequently had that urge—Gretchen had been found over the body, clutching the bloody knife that had turned out to be the murder weapon, her hand pressed to the gaping wound, not scared like any other child would have been but rather intrigued by the way the torn flesh had felt beneath her fingers.
