The Silent Girl

REALIZES WHEN HE IS THE ONE BEING hunted. He walks in the woods, rifle in hand, eyes alert for his quarry’s prints on snow-dusted ground. He searches for spoor or sits perched in his tree blind, waiting for the bear to lumber into view. It never occurs to him that his prey might be watching
him
, biding its time until he makes a mistake.
    The hunter who stalks me now would see little to fear. I appear to be merely a middle-aged woman, my hair streaked with gray, my gait slowed by weariness and the weight of the bags I carry, bulging with my weekly supply of groceries. I walk the same route I always walk on Tuesday evening. After shopping at the Chinese market on Beach Street, I turn right onto Tyler and head south, toward my quiet neighborhood of Tai Tung Village. I keep my head down, my shoulders drooped, so that anyone who sees me will think:
Here is a victim
. Not a woman who will fight back. Not a woman you need to fear.
    But by now my opponent knows he should be wary, just as I am wary of him. So far we have sparred only in the shadows but have never actually connected, except through his surrogates. We are twohunters still circling each other, and he must make the next move. Only then, when he emerges into the light, will I know his face.
    So I walk down Tyler Street as I have so many times before, wondering if this is the night. I have never felt so vulnerable, and I know the next act is about to begin. The bright lights of Beach and Kneeland streets fade behind me. I move through shadows now, past dark doorways and unlit alleys, the plastic grocery sacks rustling as I walk. Just a tired widow minding her own business. But I am aware of everything around me, from the mist on my face to the scent of cilantro and onions wafting from my bags. No one escorts me. No guardian stands watch. Tonight I am alone, a target waiting for the first arrow to come flying.
    As I draw near my home, I see the light over the porch is dark. Deliberate sabotage or merely a burned-out bulb? My nerves hum with alarm and my heart accelerates, rushing blood to muscles that are already tensing for battle. Then I spot the parked car and see the man who steps out to greet me, and my breath rushes out in a sigh of both relief and exasperation.
    “Mrs. Fang?” says Detective Frost. “I need to speak with you.”
    I pause beside my front stoop, arms weighed down by groceries, and stare at him without smiling. “I’m tired tonight. And I have nothing more to say.”
    “At least let me help you with those,” he offers and before I can protest, he snatches the grocery sacks from my hands and carries them up the steps to my porch. There he waits for me to open the door. He looks so earnest that I don’t have the heart to reject his offer.
    I unlock the door and let him in.
    As I turn on lights, he carries the sacks into the kitchen and sets them on the counter. He stands with his hands in his pockets and he watches as I put pungent herbs and crisp vegetables in the refrigerator, as I stock pantry cabinets with cooking oil and paper towels and cans of chicken broth.
    “I wanted to apologize,” he says. “And to explain.”
    “Explain?” I ask, sounding as if I really don’t care what he has to say.
    “The sword, and why we took it. In a murder investigation, we have to explore all avenues. Follow every line of inquiry. The weapon we’ve been looking for is a very old sword, and I knew you owned one.”
    I shut the pantry cabinet and turn to him. “By now you must have realized the mistake you made.”
    He nodded. “The sword will be returned to you.”
    “And when will Bella be released?”
    “That’s more complicated. We’re still looking into her background. Something I was hoping you could help us with, since you know her.”
    I shake my head. “The last time we spoke, Detective, I ended up being considered a suspect, and my family heirloom was confiscated.”
    “I didn’t want that to happen.”
    “But you’re a policeman, first and foremost.”
    “What else would you expect me to be?”
    “I don’t know. A friend?”
    That makes him pause. He stands beneath the harsh kitchen lights, which make him look older than he is. Even so, he is a young man, young enough to be my son. I don’t want to think about how those unflattering fluorescent lights must age my face.
    “I
would
be your friend, Iris,” he says. “If only …”
    “If only I weren’t a suspect.”
    “I don’t consider you one.”
    “Then you