The Silent Girl

world, where the Monkey King belongs. But he is never truly far away; when we need him most, each one of us will find him within ourselves.
    The flames die down and the three of us stare into the fire pit, seeking in those glowing ashes what we each want to see. For Bella and Johnny, it is their father’s smile of approval. They have done their filial duty; now their lives are their own.
    And what do I see in those ashes? I behold the face of my daughter, Laura, whose remains were recovered ten weeks ago from a vine-choked corner of Patrick Dion’s property. I see the face of my beloved husband, still young, his hair as black as the day we married. Though they do not age, here I linger on this earth, my health faltering, my hair turning silver, the years etching their lines ever more deeply in my face. But with every year that I grow older, I also draw closer to James and Laura, to the day when we will once again be together. So I march through the deepening shadows, serene and unafraid.
    Because I know that, at the end of my journey, they will be waiting for me.

To Bill Haber and Janet Tamaro
,
    for believing in my girls

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    No novel I’ve written has been quite as personal as this one. The story was inspired by my mother’s tales of growing up in China, tales of ghosts and mysterious martial arts masters and, yes, the heroic Monkey King. So thank you, Mom, for introducing me to the wondrous world of Chinese fables.
    Thanks also to Tony Yee and Boston PD officer Tommy Yung for their insights into Boston’s Chinatown; to Halford Jones for long encouraging me to write a story about martial arts; to my son Adam Gerritsen for his help with Mandarin words and obscure firearms; to Dr. Reena Roy, associate professor at the Penn State University Forensic Science Program, for her invaluable help on primate hair analysis; to John R. Michaud, assistant professor of legal studies, and his Criminal Justice Club students at Husson University for their advice on the metal analysis of ancient swords; and to Detective Russell Grant, Boston PD, for always being willing to field my questions. Any errors I’ve made in this novel are mine, and mine alone.
    Then there’s the stalwart team that has been behind me every step of the way with advice, encouragement, and sometimes a much-needed martini: my peerless literary agent, Meg Ruley, of the Jane Rotrosen Agency; my Ballantine editor, Linda Marrow; my Trans world champion,Selina Walker; and the man who keeps me safe and sane while I’m on the road, Brian McLendon.
    Most of all, thanks to my husband, Jacob, who so cheerfully endures the trials of being married to a writer. After spending all day with people who exist only in my head, I’m so grateful to have a real flesh-and-blood hero to return to.



T HE QUEEN OF THE DEAD HAD ARRIVED .
    As medical examiner Maura Isles stepped out of her black Lexus, her appearance on that chilly afternoon matched the nickname Boston PD cops had long ago given her. Black car, black coat, black scarf. Appropriate for this winter’s day with its deepening shadows and the scent of impending snow.
    Detective Jane Rizzoli raised a gloved hand in greeting. “Hey, Doc!” she called out. “Hope you brought your flashlight.”
    Maura crossed the street to the front steps of the church and stared at the arched doorways and boarded-up windows. “St. Anthony’s? This building’s been closed for years.”
    “The victim managed to find her way in.” Jane shivered as the wind whipped her hair and flapped the hem of her coat. “Unfortunately, so did her killer.”
    “Killer?” Maura shot Jane a questioning look. “So you’ve already decided this is a homicide.”
    “When you see her body, you’ll know why.”
    Jane waited for Maura to pull on shoe covers and gloves, then she pushed open the massive oak door and they stepped inside. Though now protected from the wind, the dank interior felt colder, as if a chill radiated from the stone walls. The building had no power, and the only illumination came from a battery-operated CSU lamp glowing at the far end. In the cavernous space above, shadows hung as thick as night.
    “How was the body found?” Maura asked.
    “A passerby reported screams coming from the building and she called nine-one-one. First officer on the scene said the back door was unlocked. He came in and found the body.”
    Jane turned on her Maglite and led Maura past rows of deserted pews toward the altar, where