tiger and he is nothing more than a lumbering buffalo, stupid and helpless against my strike. With a shriek he drops to the ground, and judging by the grotesque angle of his arm, his bone has been snapped in two.

I grab the girl and yank her to her feet. “Are you unhurt?”

She zips up her jeans and stares at me. “Who the hell are you?”

“That’s for later. Now we go!” I bark.

“How did you do that? How did you bring them down so fast?”

“Do you want to learn?”

“Yes!”

I look at the two men groaning and writhing at our feet. “Then here is the first lesson: Know when to run.” I shove her toward the door. “That time would be now.”

I WATCH HER EAT. For a small girl, she has the appetite of a wolf, and she devours three chicken tacos, a lake of refried beans, and a large glass of Coca-Cola. Mexican food was what she wanted, so we sit in a cafe where mariachi music plays and the walls are adorned with gaudy paintings of dancing senoritas. Though the girl’s features are Chinese, she is clearly American, from her cropped hair to her tattered jeans. A crude and feral creature who slurps up the last of her Coke before noisily gnawing on the ice cubes.

I begin to doubt the wisdom of this venture. She is already too old to be taught, too wild to learn discipline. I should release her back to the streets, if that’s where she wants to go, and find another way. But then I notice the scars on her knuckles and remember how close she came to single-handedly taking down the two men. She has raw talent and is fearless-two things that cannot be taught.

“Do you remember me?” I ask.

The girl sets down her glass and frowns. For an instant I think I see a flash of recognition, but then it’s gone. She shakes her head.

“It was a long time ago,” I say. “Twelve years.” An eternity for a girl so young. “You were small.”

She shrugs. “No wonder I don’t remember you.” She reaches in her jacket, pulls out a cigarette, and starts to light it.

“You’re polluting your body.”

“It’s my body,” she retorts.

“Not if you wish to train.” I reach across the table and snatch the cigarette from her lips. “If you want to learn, your attitude must change. You must show respect.”

She snorts. “You sound like my mother.”

“I knew your mother. In Boston.”

“Well, she’s dead.”

“I know. She wrote me last month. She told me she was ill and had very little time left. That’s why I’m here.”

I’m surprised to see tears glisten in the girl’s eyes and she quickly turns away, as though ashamed to reveal weakness. But in that vulnerable instant, before she hides her eyes, she brings to mind my own daughter, who was younger than this girl when I lost her. My eyes sting with tears, but I don’t try to hide them. Sorrow has made me who I am. It has been the refining fire that has honed my resolve and sharpened my purpose.

I need this girl. Clearly, she also needs me.

“It’s taken me weeks to find you,” I tell her.

“Foster home sucked. I’m better off on my own.”

“If your mother saw you now, her heart would break.”

“She never had time for me.”

“Maybe because she was working two jobs, trying to keep you fed? Because she couldn’t count on anyone but herself to do it?”

“She let the world walk all over her. Not once did I see her stand up for anything. Not even me.”

“She was afraid.”

“She was spineless.”

I lean forward, enraged by this ungrateful brat. “Your poor mother suffered in ways you can’t possibly imagine. Everything she did was for you.” In disgust, I toss her cigarette back at her. This is not the girl I’d hoped to find. She may be strong and fearless, but no sense of filial duty binds her to her dead mother and father, no sense of family honor. Without ties to our ancestors, we are lonely specks of dust, adrift and floating, attached to nothing and no one.

I pay the bill for her meal and stand. “Someday, I hope you find the wisdom to understand what your mother sacrificed for you.”

“You’re leaving?”

“There’s nothing I can teach you.”

“Why would you want to, anyway? Why did you even come looking for me?”

“I thought I would find someone different. Someone I could teach. Someone who would help me.”

“To do what?”

I don’t know how to answer her question. For a moment, the only sound is the tinny mariachi music spilling from the restaurant speakers.

“Do you remember your father?” I ask. “Do you remember what happened to him?”

She stares at me. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s why you came looking for me. Because my mother wrote you about him.”

“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.

The defendant was Boston PD officer Wayne Brian Graff, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, the vision of an

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