Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

know.”
    “If she’s your mother?”
    “Yes.”
    “Even if she is, it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just biology. What do you gain by that knowledge?”
    “The truth.” Maura sighed. “At least I’ll know the truth.”
    The truth, thought Rizzoli as she walked to her car, is seldom what people really want to hear. Wouldn’t it be better to hold on to the thinnest sliver of hope that you are not the spawn of monsters? But Maura had asked for the facts, and Rizzoli knew they would be brutal. Already, searchers had found two sets of women’s remains buried on the forested slope, not far from where Mattie Purvis had been confined. How many other pregnant women had known the terrors of that same box? How many had awakened in the darkness and had clawed, shrieking, at those impenetrable walls? How many had understood, as Mattie had, that a terrible finale waited in store for them once their usefulness, as living incubators, was over?
    Could I have survived that horror? I’ll never know the answer. Not until I’m the one in the box.
    When she reached her car in the parking garage, she found herself checking all four tires to confirm they were intact, found herself scanning the cars around her, searching for anyone who might be watching. This is what the job does to you, she thought; you begin to feel evil all around you, even when it’s not there.
    She climbed into her Subaru and started the engine. Sat for a moment as it idled, as the air blowing from the vents slowly cooled down. She reached into her purse for the cell phone, thinking: I need to hear Gabriel’s voice. I need to know that I am not Mattie Purvis, that my husband
does
love me. The way I love him.
    Her call was answered on the first ring. “Agent Dean.”
    “Hey,” she said.
    Gabriel gave a startled laugh. “I was about to call you.”
    “I miss you.”
    “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I’m heading to the airport now.”
    “The airport? Does that mean—”
    “I’m catching the next flight to Boston. So how about a date with your husband tonight? Think you can pencil me in?”
    “In permanent ink. Just come home. Please, come home.”
    A pause. Then he said, softly: “Are you okay, Jane?”
    Unexpected tears stung her eyes. “Oh, it’s these goddamn hormones.” She wiped her face and laughed. “I think I need you right now.”
    “You hold that thought. Because I’m on my way.”
    Rizzoli was smiling as she drove toward Natick to visit a different hospital, a different patient. The other survivor in this tale of slaughter. These are two extraordinary women, she thought, and I’m privileged to know them both.
    Judging by all the TV vans in the hospital parking lot, and all the reporters milling near the lobby entrance, the press, too, had decided that Mattie Purvis was a woman worth knowing. Rizzoli had to walk through a gantlet of reporters to get into the lobby. The tale of the lady buried in the box had set off a national news frenzy. Rizzoli had to flash her ID to two different security guards before finally being allowed to knock on Mattie’s hospital room door. When she heard no answer, she stepped into the room.
    The TV was on, but with the sound off. Images flickered onscreen, unwatched. Mattie lay in bed, eyes closed, looking nothing like the well-scrubbed young bride in the wedding photo. Her lips were bruised and swollen; her face was a map of nicks and scratches. A coiled IV tube was taped to a hand which had scabbed fingers and broken nails. It looked like the claw of a feral creature. But the expression on Mattie’s face was serene; it was a sleep without nightmares.
    “Mrs. Purvis?” said Rizzoli softly.
    Mattie opened her eyes and blinked a few times before she fully focused on her visitor. “Oh. Detective Rizzoli, you’re back again.”
    “I thought I’d check in on you. How’re you feeling today?”
    Mattie gave a deep sigh. “So much better. What time is it?”
    “Nearly noon.”
    “I’ve slept all morning?”
    “You deserve it. No, don’t sit up, just take it easy.”
    “But I’m tired of being flat on my back.” Mattie pushed back the covers and sat up, uncombed hair falling in limp tangles.
    “I saw your baby through the nursery window. She’s beautiful.”
    “Isn’t she?” Mattie smiled. “I’m going to call her Rose. I’ve always liked that name.”
    Rose.
A shiver went through Rizzoli. It was just a coincidence, one of those unexplainable convergences in the