Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

We turn onto Hudson Street and arrive at my modest row house, which has its own ground-floor entrance. As I pull out my keys, he lingers beneath the yellow glow of the porch light where insects buzz and tick against the bulb. He is a gentleman to the end, waiting until I am safely inside.

“Thank you for dinner and the armed escort,” I say with a smile.

“We don’t really know what’s going on yet. So do be careful.”

“Good night.” I insert my key into the lock and suddenly go very still. It’s my sharp intake of breath that alerts him.

“What is it?”

“It isn’t locked,” I whisper. The door hangs ajar. Already Zheng Yi is out of the scabbard and in my hand; I do not even remember pulling her free. My heart is thumping as I give the door a shove with my foot. It swings all the way open and I see only darkness beyond. I step forward, but Detective Frost pulls me back.

“Wait here,” he orders. Weapon drawn, he steps inside and flips on the light switch.

From the doorway I watch as he moves through my modest home, past the brown sofa, the striped armchair that James and I bought so many years ago when we first arrived from Taiwan. Furniture that I could never bear to replace, because my husband and my daughter once sat in them. Even in furniture, beloved spirits still linger. As Frost heads to the kitchen, I walk into the middle of the living room and stand very still, inhaling the air, scanning the room. My gaze halts on the bookcase. On the empty picture frame. I feel a thrill of fear.

Someone has been here .

From the kitchen, Frost says: “Does it look okay to you?”

I don’t answer but move toward the stairs.

“Iris, wait,” he says.

Already I’m darting up the steps, moving silently. It’s my heartbeat that thunders. It sends blood rushing to limbs, to muscles. I grip my sword with both hands as I step toward my bedroom door.

Scatter the clouds and see the sun .

I sniff and know at once that the intruder has been in this room, has left his scent of aggression. The air is foul with the smell, and for a few heartbeats I cannot bring myself to advance and meet the enemy. I hear Detective Frost come running up the stairs. He defends my back, but it’s what waits ahead that terrifies me.

Use the seven stars to ride the tiger .

I step across the threshold just as Frost turns on the light. The room comes into sudden, shocking focus. The missing photograph is on my pillow, fixed there by a knife blade. Only when I hear Frost punching numbers into his cell phone do I turn to look at him.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Calling my partner. She needs to know about this.”

“Don’t call her. Please. You don’t know anything about this.”

He looks up at me, his gaze suddenly focused with an intensity that makes me realize I have underestimated him. “Do you?”

JANE STOOD IN IRIS FANG’S BEDROOM, STARING AT THE PHOTOGRAPH that had been stabbed through by a butcher knife. It was a picture of a much younger Iris, her face aglow and smiling as she held an infant in her arms.

“She says the knife is from her own kitchen,” said Frost. “And the baby is her daughter, Laura. That photo is supposed to be in a frame downstairs, on the bookcase. Whoever broke in deliberately took it out of the frame and brought it upstairs, where she certainly couldn’t miss seeing it.”

“Or the message. Stabbing a knife in her pillow sure as hell isn’t wishing her sweet dreams. What is this all about?”

“She doesn’t know.” He dropped his voice so Iris couldn’t hear him from downstairs. “At least, that’s what she says.”

“You think she’s not being straight with us?”

“I don’t know. The thing is…”

“What?”

His voice dropped even lower. “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.”