Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

humming in the windless heat, but the chill of the house was still with her. She descended the porch steps.
    You pursued her here, down the stairs. On a moonlit night, she would have been easy to follow. Just a lone girl in her nightgown.
    She walked slowly up the driveway, following the route along which Josephine had fled, her bare feet cut by glass. The main road was ahead, beyond the trees, and all the fleeing girl had to do was reach a neighbor’s house. Scream and pound on a door.
    Jane paused, her gaze on the bloodstained gravel.
    But here the bullet struck her leg, and she fell.
    Slowly she followed the trail of blood that Josephine had smeared along the road as she’d struggled forward on hands and knees. Every inch of the way she must have known he was moving toward her, closing in for the kill. The trail of blood seemed to stretch on and on, until it came to a halt, a dozen yards short of the road. It had been a long and desperate crawl to this spot—long enough for the killer to catch up with her. Certainly long enough for him to pull the trigger one last time and make his escape.
    Yet he didn’t fire the fatal shot.
    Jane halted, staring down at the spot where Josephine had been kneeling when the officers spotted her. When they’d arrived, they had seen no one else, only the injured woman. A woman who should have been dead.
    Only then did Jane understand.
The killer wanted her alive.

TWENTY-ONE
    Everybody lies, thought Jane. But few people managed to inhabit their lies as completely and successfully as had Josephine Pulcillo.
    As she and Frost drove to the hospital, she wondered what confabulations Josephine would tell them today, what new tales she’d invent to explain away the undeniable facts that they’d uncovered about her. She wondered if Frost would let himself be seduced once again by those lies.
    “I think that maybe you should let me do the talking when we get there,” she said.
    “Why?”
    “I’d just like to handle this myself.”
    He looked at her. “Any particular reason you feel the need to do it this way?”
    She took her time responding because she couldn’t truthfully answer the question without widening the breach between them, a breach caused by Josephine. “I just think I should deal with her. Since my instincts about her have been pretty spot-on.”
    “Instincts? Is that what you call it?”
    “You trusted her. I didn’t. I was right about her, wasn’t I?”
    He turned toward the window. “Or jealous of her.”
    “What?” She turned into the hospital parking lot and shut off the engine. “Is that what you think?”
    He sighed. “Never mind.”
    “No, tell me. What did you mean by that?”
    “Nothing.” He shoved open the car door. “Let’s go,” he said.
    She stepped out of the car and slammed her door shut, wondering if there was even a thin vein of truth in what Frost had just said. Wondering if the fact that she herself was not beautiful made her resentful of how easily attractive women navigated the world. Men worshiped pretty women, catered to them, and, most important, listened to them.
While the rest of us plug on as best we can.
But even if she were jealous, it didn’t change the essential fact that her instincts had been right.
    Josephine Pulcillo was a fraud.
    She and Frost were silent as they walked into the hospital, as they rode the elevator to the surgical wing. Never before had she felt such a gulf between them. Though they were side by side, there was now a continent separating them, and she didn’t even glance at him as they headed up the hall. Grimly, Jane pushed open the door to room 216 and stepped inside.
    The young woman they’d known as Josephine stared at them from the bed. In her flimsy hospital gown, she looked fetchingly vulnerable, a doe-eyed maiden in need of rescue. How the hell did she do it? Even with her unwashed hair and her leg in a clunky cast, she managed to look beautiful.
    Jane didn’t waste time. She crossed straight to the bed and said, “Do you want to tell us about San Diego?”
    At once, Josephine’s gaze dropped to the sheets, avoiding Jane’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You would’ve been about fourteen years old then. Old enough to remember what took place that night.”
    Josephine shook her head. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
    “Your name was Susan Cook at the time. You were a student at William Howard Taft Middle School and you lived with your