The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

“What is this?”
    “Your new name.”
    The girl opened the passport and saw her own photo—a photo that she vaguely remembered posing for months before, at her mother’s insistence. She had not realized it was for a passport.
    “What do you think?” Medea asked.
    The daughter stared at the name.
Josephine.
    “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Medea. “It’s your new name.”
    “Why do I need it? Why are we doing this again?” The girl’s voice rose to a hysterical shriek.
“Why?”
    Medea pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. She grasped her daughter’s face in her hands and forced her to meet her gaze. “We’re doing this because we have no choice. If we don’t run, they’ll put me in jail. They’ll take you from me.”
    “But you didn’t do anything! You’re not the one who killed him!
I did!
”
    Medea grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Don’t ever tell that to anyone, do you understand? Not
ever.
If we’re ever caught, if the police ever find us, you have to tell them that I shot him. Tell them I killed that man, not you.”
    “Why do you want me to lie?”
    “Because I love you and I don’t want you to suffer for what happened. You shot him to protect me. Now I’m protecting you. So promise me you’ll keep this secret.
Promise me.
”
    And her daughter had promised, even though the events of that night were still vivid: Her mother sprawled on the bedroom floor, the man standing over her. The alien gleam of a gun on the nightstand. How heavy it had felt when she’d picked it up. How her hands had trembled when she’d pulled the trigger. She, and not her mother, had killed the intruder. That was the secret between them, the secret that they alone shared.
    “No one ever has to know you killed him,” Medea had said.
    “This is my problem, not yours. It will never be yours. You’re going to grow up and go on with your life. You’re going to be happy. And this will stay buried in the past.”
    But it hasn’t stayed buried, thought Josephine as she lay in her prison.
What happened that night has come back to haunt me.
    Cracks of light slowly brightened in the window boards as dawn progressed to midday. It was just enough light for her to barely see the outline of her own hand when she held it in front of her face. A few more days in this place, she thought, and I’ll be like a bat, able to navigate in the dark.
    She sat up, shaking off the morning chill. She heard the chain rattling outside as the dog lapped up water. She followed suit and sipped from her water jug. Two nights ago, when her captor had cut off her hair, he’d also left behind a fresh bag of bread, and she was enraged to discover there were newly chewed holes in the plastic. The mice had been at it. Find your own damn food, she thought as she greedily wolfed down two slices. I need the energy; I need to find a way to get out of here.
    I’ll do it for us, Mom. For the primordial unit. You taught me how to survive so I will. Because I am your daughter.
    As the hours passed, she flexed her muscles, rehearsed her moves.
I am my mother’s daughter.
That was her mantra. Again and again, Josephine hobbled around the cell with her eyes closed, memorizing how many steps it took to travel between the mattress and the wall, the wall and the door. The darkness would be her friend, if she knew how to use it.
    Outside, the dog began to bark.
    She looked up, her heart suddenly banging hard, as footsteps creaked across the ceiling.
    He’s back. This is it, this is my chance.
    She dropped down onto the mattress and curled into a fetal position, assuming the universal pose of the scared and the defeated. He would see a woman who had given up, a woman who was prepared to die. A woman who would give him no trouble.
    The bolt squealed. The door opened.
    She saw the glow of his flashlight beaming from the doorway. He came into the room and set down a fresh jug of water, another bag of bread. She remained perfectly still.
Let him wonder if I’m dead.
    His footsteps came closer, and she heard him breathing in the dark above her. “Time is running out, Josephine,” he said.
    She did not move, even as he bent down and stroked her shorn scalp.
    “Doesn’t she love you? Doesn’t she want to save you? Why doesn’t she come?”
    Don’t say a word. Don’t move a muscle. Make him lean closer.
    “All these years she’s managed to hide from me. Now if she doesn’t come out, then