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slightly parted, as though in surprise. She reeled backward, her limbs suddenly boneless, and she had the dizzying sense that she was floating away, her body no longer anchored to the earth. A hand grasped her arm, steadying her. It was Father Brophy, standing right behind her. She had not even noticed he was there.
    Now she understood why everyone had been so stunned by her arrival. She stared at the corpse in the car, at the face illuminated by Rizzoli’s flashlight beam.
    It’s me. That woman is me.

TWO
    S HE SAT ON THE COUCH, sipping vodka and soda, the ice cubes clattering in her glass. To hell with plain water; this shock called for sterner medicine, and Father Brophy had been understanding enough to mix her a strong drink, handing it to her without comment. It’s not every day you see yourself dead. Not every day you walk onto a crime scene and encounter your lifeless doppelgänger.
    “It’s just a coincidence,” she whispered. “The woman looks like me, that’s all. A lot of women have black hair. And her face—how can you really see her face in that car?”
    “I don’t know, Doc,” said Rizzoli. “The resemblance is pretty scary.” She sank into the easy chair, groaning as the cushions swallowed up her heavily pregnant frame. Poor Rizzoli, thought Maura. Women who are eight months pregnant should not be dragging themselves through homicide investigations.
    “Her hairstyle is different,” said Maura.
    “A little longer, that’s all.”
    “I have bangs. She doesn’t.”
    “Don’t you think that’s sort of a superficial detail? Look at her face. She could be your sister.”
    “Wait till we see her with more light. Maybe she won’t look like me at all.”
    Father Brophy said, “The resemblance is there, Maura. We all saw it. She looks exactly like you.”
    “Plus, she’s sitting in a car in your neighborhood,” added Rizzoli. “Parked practically in front of your house. And she had this lying on the back seat.” Rizzoli held up an evidence bag. Through the transparent plastic, Maura could see it contained an article torn from
The Boston Globe.
The headline was large enough for her to read it even from across the coffee table.
    RAWLINS INFANT WAS BATTERED BABY, MEDICAL EXAMINER TESTIFIES.
    “It’s a photo of
you,
Doc,” said Rizzoli. “The caption says ‘Medical Examiner Dr. Maura Isles leaves the courtroom after testifying in Rawlins trial.’” She looked at Maura. “The victim had this in her car.”
    Maura shook her head. “Why?”
    “That’s what we’re wondering.”
    “The Rawlins trial—that was almost two weeks ago.”
    “Do you remember seeing that woman in the courtroom?”
    “No. I’ve never seen her before.”
    “But she’s obviously seen
you.
In the newspaper, anyway. And then she shows up here. Looking for you? Stalking you?”
    Maura stared at her drink. The vodka was making her head float. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she thought, I was walking the streets of Paris. Enjoying the sunshine, savoring the scents drifting from the street cafés. How did I manage to take a wrong turn into this nightmare?
    “Do you keep a firearm, Doc?” asked Rizzoli.
    Maura stiffened. “What kind of question is that?”
    “No, I’m not accusing you of anything. I just wondered if you have a way to defend yourself.”
    “I don’t have a gun. I’ve seen the damage they can do to a human body, and I won’t have one in my house.”
    “Okay. Just asking.”
    Maura took another sip of vodka, needing liquid courage before she asked the next question: “What do you know about the victim?”
    Frost pulled out his notebook, flipping through it like some fussy clerk. In so many ways, Barry Frost reminded Maura of a mild-mannered bureaucrat with his pen always at the ready. “According to the driver’s license in her purse, her name is Anna Jessop, age forty, with an address in Brighton. Vehicle registration matches the same name.”
    Maura’s head lifted. “That’s only