The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

say to him. Maybe he wanted to show you that he
does
have admirers. That even though you despise him, there are women who don’t, women who are drawn to him. He’s like a spurned lover, trying to make you jealous. Trying to throw you off balance.”
    “Don’t mind-fuck me.”
    “And it’s working, isn’t it? Look at you. He’s got you wound up so tight you can’t even sit still. He knows how to manipulate you, how to mess around with your head.”
    “You’re giving him too much credit.”
    “Am I?”
    She waved at the letters. “This is all supposed to be for my benefit? What, I’m the center of his universe?”
    “Isn’t he the center of yours?” Dean said quietly.
    She stared at him, unable to come up with a retort because what he had said struck her, at that instant, as the unassailable truth. Warren Hoyt
was
the center of her universe. He reigned as dark lord over her nightmares and dominated her waking hours as well, always poised to step out of his closet, back into her thoughts. In that cellar, she had been marked as his, the way every victim is marked by an assailant, and she could not obliterate his stamp of ownership. It was carved into her hands, seared into her soul.
    She returned to the table and sat down. Steeled herself for the remainder of the task.
    The next envelope had a typed return address:
Dr. J. P. O’Donnell, 1634 Brattle Street, Cambridge, MA 02138.
Near Harvard University, Brattle Street was a neighborhood of fine homes and the educated elite, where university professors and retired industrialists jogged the same sidewalks and waved to each other across manicured hedges. It was not the sort of neighborhood where one expected to find a monster’s acolyte.
    She unfolded the letter inside. It was dated six weeks ago.

    Dear Warren,
    Thank you for your last letter, and for signing the two release forms. The details you’ve provided go a long way toward helping me understand the difficulties you’ve faced. I have so many other questions to ask you, and I’m glad you’re still willing to meet with me as planned. If you have no objections, I would like to videotape the interview. You know, of course, that your help is absolutely essential to my project.
    Sincerely, Dr. O’Donnell

    “Who on earth is J. P. O’Donnell?” Rizzoli said.
    Dean glanced up in surprise. “Joyce O’Donnell?”
    “The envelope just says Dr. J. P. O’Donnell. Cambridge, Mass. She’s been interviewing Hoyt.”
    He frowned at the envelope. “I didn’t know she’d moved to Boston.”
    “You know her?”
    “She’s a neuropsychiatrist. Let’s just say we met under hostile circumstances, across the aisle of a courtroom. Defense attorneys love her.”
    “Don’t tell me. An expert witness. She goes to bat for the bad guys.”
    He nodded. “No matter what your client’s done, how many people he’s killed, O’Donnell is happy to provide mitigating testimony.”
    “I wonder why she’s writing to Hoyt.” She reread the letter. It had been written with the utmost respect, praising him for his cooperation. Already she disliked Dr. O’Donnell.
    The next envelope in the stack was also from O’Donnell, but it did not contain a letter. Instead she pulled out three Polaroids—strictly amateurish snapshots. Two of them had been taken outdoors in daylight; the third was an indoor scene. For a moment she just stared, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up, her eyes registering what her brain refused to accept. She jerked back, and the photos dropped from her hands like hot coals.
    “Jane? What is it?”
    “It’s me,” she whispered.
    “What?”
    “She’s been following me. Taking photos of me. She sent them to
him
.”
    Dean rose from his chair and circled to her side of the table to look over her shoulder. “I don’t see you here—”
    “Look.
Look
.” She pointed to the photo of a dark-green Honda parked on the street. “It’s mine.”
    “You can’t see the license number.”
    “I can recognize my own car!”
    Dean flipped over the Polaroid. On the back, someone had drawn an absurd smiley face and had written in blue felt-tip ink:
My car.
    Fear beat its drum in her chest. “Look at the next one,” she said.
    He picked up the second photo. This one, too, had been taken in daylight, and it showed the facade of a building. He didn’t need to be told which building it was; last night he had been inside it. He turned over the photo and saw the words:
My