Prophet Jeremiah Goode stood in her way. He took her hand.

How hot his fingers felt against her chilled skin. And how large his hand looked, wrapped around hers, as though she were trapped in the grip of a giant.

The congregation began to sing the wedding song. Joyful union, blessed in heaven, bound forever in His eyes!

Prophet Goode tugged her close beside him, and she gave a whimper of pain as his fingers pressed like claws into her skin. You are mine now, bound to me by the will of God, that squeeze told her. You will obey.

She turned to look at her father and mother. Silently she implored them to take her from this place, to bring her home where she belonged. They were both beaming as they sang. Scanning the hall, she searched for someone who would pluck her out of this nightmare, but all she saw was a vast sea of approving smiles and nodding heads. A room where sunlight glistened on flower petals, where two hundred voices swelled with song.

A room where no one heard, where no one wanted to hear, a thirteen-year-old girl’s silent shrieks.

2

SIXTEEN YEARS LATER

THEY HAD COME TO THE END OF THE AFFAIR, BUT NEITHER OF THEM would admit it. Instead they talked about the rain-flooded roads and how bad the traffic was this morning, and the likelihood that her flight out of Logan Airport would be delayed. They did not speak of what weighed on both their minds, although Maura Isles could hear it in Daniel Brophy’s voice, and in her own as well, so flat, so subdued. Both of them were struggling to pretend that nothing between them had changed. No, they were simply exhausted from staying up half the night, trapped in the same painful conversation that was their predictable coda to making love. The conversation that always left her feeling needy and demanding.

If only you could stay here with me every night. If only we could wake up together every morning.