The Silent Girl

drop the mask into the flames. Instantly the hairs catch fire and I smell sizzling fur and charred leather. In one bright flare, the mask is consumed, returning Sun Wukong to the spirit world, where the Monkey King belongs. But he is never truly far away; when we need him most, each one of us will find him within ourselves.
    The flames die down and the three of us stare into the fire pit, seeking in those glowing ashes what we each want to see. For Bella and Johnny, it is their father’s smile of approval. They have done their filial duty; now their lives are their own.
    And what do I see in those ashes? I behold the face of my daughter, Laura, whose remains were recovered ten weeks ago from a vine-choked corner of Patrick Dion’s property. I see the face of my beloved husband, still young, his hair as black as the day we married. Though they do not age, here I linger on this earth, my health faltering, my hair turning silver, the years etching their lines ever more deeply in my face. But with every year that I grow older, I also draw closer to James and Laura, to the day when we will once again be together. So I march through the deepening shadows, serene and unafraid.
    Because I know that, at the end of my journey, they will be waiting for me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
     
    No novel I’ve written has been quite as personal as this one. The story was inspired by my mother’s tales of growing up in China, tales of ghosts and mysterious martial arts masters and, yes, the heroic Monkey King. So thank you, Mom, for introducing me to the wondrous world of Chinese fables.
    Thanks also to Tony Yee and Boston PD officer Tommy Yung for their insights into Boston’s Chinatown; to Halford Jones for long encouraging me to write a story about martial arts; to my son Adam Gerritsen for his help with Mandarin words and obscure firearms; to Dr. Reena Roy, associate professor at the Penn State University Forensic Science Program, for her invaluable help on primate hair analysis; to John R. Michaud, assistant professor of legal studies, and his Criminal Justice Club students at Husson University for their advice on the metal analysis of ancient swords; and to Detective Russell Grant, Boston PD, for always being willing to field my questions. Any errors I’ve made in this novel are mine, and mine alone.
    Then there’s the stalwart team that has been behind me every step of the way with advice, encouragement, and sometimes a much-needed martini: my peerless literary agent, Meg Ruley, of the Jane Rotrosen Agency; my Ballantine editor, Linda Marrow; my Trans world champion,Selina Walker; and the man who keeps me safe and sane while I’m on the road, Brian McLendon.
    Most of all, thanks to my husband, Jacob, who so cheerfully endures the trials of being married to a writer. After spending all day with people who exist only in my head, I’m so grateful to have a real flesh-and-blood hero to return to.

RIZZOLI & ISLES
    “We Don’t Need Another Hero”
     
Written By Janet Tamaro
Directed By Michael Zinberg
     
    All rights reserved. © 2011 Warner Horizon Television Inc. This script is the property of Horizon Scripted Television Inc. No portion of this script may be performed, reproduced or used by any means, or disclosed to, quoted or published in any medium without the prior written consent of Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

INT. APARTMENT BUILDING - HALLWAY OUTSIDE APT. -NIGHT 1 6
    TIGHT ON Maura as she KNOCKS.
    DOOR IS FLUNG OPEN TO REVEAL -
    JANE RIZZOLI. It’s been three months since she nearly died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She’s in sweats and T-shirt she’s had on for days, eats chocolate cereal. Maura steps past her.
    MAURA
You look terrible.
JANE
Thank you.
     
    Jane’s living room gives away what she’s been doing: nothing. Well, watching TV, surfing the Web. Dead flower arrangements, dead fruit baskets, deflated “Get Well!” balloons and cards. BOXES of shit from shopping channels.
MAURA
You’re making everybody late.
     
JANE
Even
you
would look terrible if a bullet had gone through you.
     
MAURA
Hmmm … laceration to your peritoneum and small bowel could explain your jaundiced color -
     
JANE
Hey – you may not casually discuss my privates, okay?
     
MAURA
“Casual” is occurring by chance, showing little interest or concern -
     
Maura is so distressed by the mess, she starts cleaning.
     
MAURA (CONT’D)
Three months … Jane, you could have read all of Shakespeare! Learned Finnish. (looks