The Silent Girl

“She didn’t want me to call you. In fact, she asked me to forget the whole thing. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
    Or me either, thought Jane, frowning at the knife, which had been plunged hilt-deep, crushing the picture against the linen. It was an act of sheer rage, meant to terrify. “Anyone else would be screaming for police protection.”
    “She insists she doesn’t need it. Says she’s not afraid.”
    “Are we sure someone else was actually in here?”
    “What are you implying?”
    “She could have done this herself. Taken a knife from her own kitchen.”
    “Why would she?”
    “It would explain why she’s not scared.”
    “That’s not how it happened.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because I was right here when she found it.”
    Jane turned to him. “You came up to her bedroom?”
    “Don’t look at me like that. I walked her home, that’s all. We noticed her front door was open, so I came in to check the place.”
    “Okay.”
    “That’s all it was!”
    Then why do you look so guilty?
She stared down at the mutilated photo. “If I came home and found something like this, it would scare the hell out of me. So why doesn’t she want us to look into it?”
    “It could be just a cultural thing about the police. Tam says that folks in Chinatown are leery of us.”
    “I’d be a lot more leery of whoever did this.” Jane turned to the door. “Let’s have a talk with Mrs. Fang.”
    Downstairs she found Iris seated on the faded brown sofa, looking far too calm for a woman whose home had just been violated. Detective Tam was pacing nearby, cell phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up at Jane with a look of
I don’t know what’s going on here, either
.
    Jane sat down across from Iris and just studied her for a moment without saying a word. The woman stared straight back at her, as though understanding that this was a test, and she had already girded herself for the challenge. It was not the gaze of a victim.
    “What do you think is going on, Mrs. Fang?” Jane said.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Has your home been broken into before?”
    “No.”
    “How long have you lived in this building?”
    “Almost thirty-five years. Since my husband and I immigrated to this country.”
    “Is there anyone you know who’d do this? Maybe some man you’ve been dating, someone who’s angry that you rejected him?”
    “No.” She hadn’t paused to even think about it. As if that answer was the only one she was prepared to give. “There is no man. And there’s no need for the police to be involved.”
    “Someone breaks into your home. Someone stabs a butcher knife through your photo and leaves it on your pillow. The message couldn’t be clearer. Who’s threatening you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Yet you don’t want us to look into it.”
    The woman stared back, displaying no fear. It was like looking into pools of black water, revealing nothing at all. Jane leaned back and let a moment pass. She saw Tam and Frost standing on the periphery, intently following their conversation. Three sets of eyes were focused on Iris, and the silence stretched on, yet the woman’s composure did not crack.
    Time for a new approach.
    “I had an interesting conversation today,” said Jane. “With Patrick Dion, the ex-husband of one of the Red Phoenix victims. He tells me that every year in March, you’ve mailed notes to him and the other families.”
    “I’ve sent no one any notes.”
    “For the past seven years, they’ve been getting them. Always on the anniversary of the Red Phoenix massacre. The families believe you’re doing it. Sending them copies of their loved ones’ obituaries. Trying to bring back the bad memories.”
    “Bring
back
the memories?” Iris stiffened. “What kind of familiesare these, needing to be
reminded
?” For the first time, agitation shook her voice, made her hands tremble. “I live with my memories. They never leave me, not even when I sleep.”
    “Have you received any notes?”
    “No. But then, no one needs to remind
me
. Of all the families, it seems I’m the only one who’s asked questions. Demanded answers.”
    “If you aren’t sending them, do you know who might be?”
    “Maybe it’s someone who believes the truth has been suppressed.”
    “Like you.”
    “But I’m not afraid to say it.”
    “And in a very public way. We know you placed the ad in the
Globe
last month.”
    “If your husband were murdered, and you knew the killer was never