Maura closed the body bag, zipping the plastic over sunken eyes, over corneas clouded by death. She would not be performing this autopsy, but she did not need a scalpel and probe to tell her how this victim had died; she had seen the answer engraved on the woman’s flesh.

They wheeled the gurney back into the refrigerator and stripped off their gloves. Standing at the sink, washing his hands, Kibbie said, “Ten years ago, when I moved to Chenango County, I thought this was God’s country. Fresh air, rolling hills. Folks who’d wave hello, feed me pie when I made a house call.” He sighed, shut off the faucet. “You can’t get away from it, can you? Big city or small town, husbands still shoot their wives, kids still smash and grab. But I never thought I’d see this kind of sick stuff.” He yanked out a paper towel and dried his hands. “Certainly not in a village like Purity. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.”

“How far is it?”

“Another hour and a half, maybe two hours. Depending on whether you want to risk your lives speeding on back roads.”

“Then we’d better get going,” said Jane, “if we want to find a motel there.”

“A motel?” Kibbie laughed. “If I were you, I’d stop in the town of Norwich instead. You’re not going to find much in Purity.”

“It’s that small?”

He tossed the paper towel into the trash can. “It’s that small.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

The motel walls were paper-thin. Lying in bed, Maura could hear Jane talking on the phone in the next room. How nice it must be, she thought, to call your husband and laugh out loud together. To share a public kiss, a hug, without first having to glance around, looking for anyone who might know you, and disapprove. Her own call to Daniel had been brief and furtive. There’d been other people talking in the background, others in the room listening to him, which was why he’d sounded so reserved. Was this how it would always be? Their private lives cut off from their public lives, and never an intersection between them? Here were the real wages of sin. Not hellfire and damnation, but heartbreak.

In the next room, Jane ended her call. A moment later, the TV came on, and then Maura heard the sound of running water in the shower. Only a wall separated them, but the barrier between them was far more formidable than wood and plaster. They’d said hardly a word since Binghamton, and now, just the sound of Jane’s TV was an escalating annoyance. Maura pulled a pillow over her head to shut out the noise, but it could not muffle the whispers of doubt in her mind. Even when Jane’s room finally fell silent, Maura lay awake and aware of the minutes, then the hours, ticking by.

It was not yet seven the next morning when she finally climbed out of bed, exhausted from her restless night, and looked out the window. The sky was a claustrophobic gray. Snow had fallen overnight, and the cars in the parking lot were blanketed in white. She wanted to go home. To hell with the bastard who wrote on her door. She wanted the comfort of her own bed, her own kitchen. But a long day still stretched ahead of her, another day of resentful silences and disapproving jibes from Jane. Just grit your teeth and get through it.

It took two cups of coffee before she felt ready to face the day. Fueled by a stale cheese Danish, compliments of the motel’s continental breakfast, she carried her overnight bag to the parking lot, where Jane already had the engine running.

“Jurevich will meet us at the house,” said Jane.

“You know how to find it?”

“He gave me directions.” Jane frowned at Maura. “Man, you look wiped out.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Mattress was pretty bad, huh?”

“Among other things.” Maura tossed her bag onto the backseat and pulled her door shut. They sat without speaking for a moment, the heater blowing at their knees.

“You’re still pissed at me,” said Jane.

“I’m not feeling really chatty right now.”

“I’m just trying to be a friend, okay? If I see a friend’s life going off the rails, I think it’s my duty to say something about it.”

“And I heard you.” Maura snapped on her seat belt. “Can we get going now?”

They left the town of Norwich and headed northwest, along roads slippery with newly fallen snow. Thick clouds threatened yet more snow today, and the view that Maura saw from her window was smudged in shades of gray. The cheese Danish sat like a lump of concrete in her stomach, and she leaned back, eyes closed against the nausea.

She startled awake what seemed like only moments later, to find that they were now struggling along an unplowed road, Jane’s tires churning through snow. Dense woods pressed in on both sides, and the clouds had darkened since Maura had fallen asleep.

“How much farther to Purity?” she asked.

“We already passed through the village. You didn’t miss anything.”

“You sure this is the right road?”

“These were his directions.”

“Jane, we’re going to get stuck.”

“I’ve got all-wheel drive, okay? And we can always call a tow truck.”

Maura took out her cell phone. “No signal. Good luck.”

“Here. This has got to be the turnoff,” said Jane, pointing to a realty sign that was half-buried in snow. “The house is for sale, remember?” She gunned the engine and the Subaru fishtailed, then the tires found purchase and they surged up the road, which now began to climb. The trees parted, giving way to a view of the house that stood on the knoll.

Jane pulled into the driveway and gazed up at a three-story Victorian towering above them. “Wow,” she murmured. “This is a pretty big place.”

Crime-scene tape fluttered on the railings of a broad covered porch. Although the clapboards were badly in need of paint, the signs of neglect could not disguise the fact that this was once a handsome home, with a view to match. They climbed out of the car and flying snow stung their faces as they mounted the steps to the porch. Peering through a window, Maura could see ghostly shapes of sheet-covered furniture but little else in the shadowy interior.

“Door’s locked,” said Jane.

“What time’s he supposed to meet us?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

Maura huffed out a cloudy breath. “This wind is freezing. How long are we supposed to wait?”

“Let me see if I can get a signal.” Jane frowned at her cell phone. “One bar. That might do it.”

“I’m going to sit in the car.” Maura went down the steps and was just about to open the door when she heard Jane say, “There he is now.”

Turning, Maura saw a red Jeep Cherokee driving up the road. Following right behind it was a black Mercedes. The Cherokee parked next to Jane’s Subaru and a man with crew-cut hair stepped out, dressed for the weather in a voluminous down jacket and heavy boots. He held out a gloved hand to Maura, and she saw a humorless face, chilly gray eyes.

“Detective Rizzoli?” he asked.

“No, I’m Dr. Isles. You must be Detective Jurevich.”

He nodded as they shook hands. “I’m with the Chenango County Sheriff’s Office.” He glanced at Jane, who was coming down the porch steps to meet him. “You’re Rizzoli?”

“Yeah. We just got here a few minutes…” Jane stopped, her gaze suddenly freezing on the black Mercedes, on the man who had just stepped out of it. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He predicted you’d react that way,” said Jurevich.

Anthony Sansone strode toward them, black coat flapping in the wind. He nodded to Jane, a curt greeting that acknowledged the obvious: that she did not welcome him. Then his gaze fixed on Maura. “You’ve already seen the body?”

She nodded. “Last night.”

“Do you think we’re dealing with the same killer?”

“What’s with this word we?” Jane cut in. “I wasn’t aware you worked in law enforcement, Mr. Sansone.”