“Your father was a good man. He loved you, and you dishonor him. You dishonor both your parents.” I place a bundle of cash in front of her. “This is in their memory. Get off the street and go back to school. At least there, you won’t have to fight off strange men.” I turn and walk out of the restaurant.

In seconds she’s out the door and running after me. “Wait!” she calls. “Where are you going?”

“Back home to Boston.”

“I do remember you. I think I know what you want.”

I stop and face her. “It’s what you should want, too.”

“What do I have to do?”

I look her up and down, and see scrawny shoulders and hips so narrow they barely hold up her blue jeans. “It’s not what you need to do,” I reply. “It’s what you need to be.” Slowly I move toward her. Up till this point, she’s seen no reason to fear me and why should she? I am just a woman. But something she now sees in my eyes makes her take a step back.

“Are you afraid?” I ask her softly.

Her chin juts up, and she says with foolish bravado: “No. I’m not.”

“You should be.”

TWO

SEVEN YEARS LATER

MY NAME IS DR. MAURA ISLES, LAST NAME SPELLED I-S-L-E-S. I’M A forensic pathologist, employed by the medical examiner’s office in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

“Please describe for the court your education and background, Dr. Isles,” said the Suffolk County assistant district attorney Carmela Aguilar.

Maura kept her gaze on the assistant DA as she answered the question. It was far easier to focus on Aguilar’s neutral face than to see the glares coming from the defendant and his supporters, dozens of whom had gathered in the courtroom. Aguilar did not seem to notice or care that she was arguing her case before a hostile audience, but Maura was acutely aware of it; a large segment of that audience was law enforcement officers and their friends. They were not going to like what Maura had to say.