The Silent Girl

convincing.” Aguilar looked hard at her. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Dr. Isles?”
    “Other than the fact my mother’s a convicted murderer and I torture kittens for fun?”
    “I’m not laughing.”
    “You said it earlier. I’m not the one on trial.”
    “No, but they’ll try to make it about you. Whether you hate cops. Whether you have a hidden agenda. We could lose this case if that jury thinks you’re not on the level. So tell me if there’s anything else they might bring up. Any secrets that you haven’t mentioned to me.”
    Maura considered the private embarrassments that she guarded. The illicit affair that she’d just ended. Her family’s history of violence. “Everyone has secrets,” she said. “Mine aren’t relevant.”
    “Let’s hope not,” said Aguilar.

 
    W HEREVER YOU LOOKED IN BOSTON’S CHINATOWN, THERE WERE ghosts. They haunted quiet Tai Tung Village as well as garish Beach Street, hovered along Ping On Alley and flitted down the dark lane behind Oxford Place. Ghosts were everywhere on these streets. That, at least, was tour guide Billy Foo’s story, and he was sticking to it. Whether he himself believed in ghosts hardly mattered; his job was to convince the tourists that these streets were haunted by spirits. People
wanted
to believe in ghosts; that’s why so many of them were willing to pony up fifteen bucks apiece to stand shivering on the corner of Beach and Oxford and listen to Billy’s gory tales of murder. Tonight, an auspicious thirteen of them had signed up for the late-night Chinatown Ghost Tour, including a pair of bratty ten-year-old twins who should have been put to bed three hours ago. But when you need the money, you don’t turn away paying guests, even bratty little boys. Billy was a theater major with no job prospects on the horizon, and tonight’s haul was a cool $195, plus tips. Not a bad payday for two hours of telling tall tales, even if it came with the humiliation of wearing a satin mandarin robe and a fake pigtail.
    Billy cleared his throat and held up his arms, drawing on skills he’d learned from six semesters of theater classes to get their attention. “The year is 1907! August second, a warm Friday evening.” His voice, deep and ominous, rose above the distracting sound of traffic. Like Death singling out his next victim, Billy pointed across the street. “There, in the square known as Oxford Place, beats the heart of Boston’s Chinese quarter. Walk with me now, as we step back into an era when these streets teemed with immigrants. When the steamy night smelled of sweating bodies and strange spices. Come back to a night when
murder
was in the air!” With a dramatic wave, he beckoned the group to follow him to Oxford Place, where they all moved in closer to listen. Gazing at their attentive faces, he thought: Now it’s time to enchant them, time to weave a spell as only a fine actor can. He spread his arms, and the sleeves of his mandarin robe flapped like satin wings as he took in a breath to speak.
    “Mahhhh
-mee
!” one of the brats whined. “He’s
kicking
me!”
    “Stop it, Michael,” the mother snapped. “You stop it right this minute.”
    “I didn’t
do
anything!”
    “You’re annoying your brother.”
    “Well, he’s annoying
me.
”
    “Do you boys want to go back to the hotel?
Do
you?”
    Oh Lord,
please
go back to your hotel, thought Billy. But the two brothers just stood glowering at each other, arms crossed, refusing to be entertained.
    “As I was saying,” continued Billy. But the interruption had ruined his concentration, and he could almost hear the
pffft!
of the dramatic tension leaking away like air from a balloon with a hole in it. Gritting his teeth, he continued.
    “It was a steamy night in August. In this square, after a long day’s work in their laundries and grocery stores, a crowd of Chinamen sat resting.” He hated that word
Chinamen
, but forced himself to say it anyway, to evoke an era when newspapers regularly referred to
furtive and sinister Orientals
. When even
Time
magazine had seen fit todescribe
malice palely half-smiling from faces as yellow as telegraph blanks
. An era when Billy Foo, a Chinese American, would have found no jobs open to him except as laundryman or cook or laborer.
    “Here in this square, a battle is about to erupt,” said Billy. “A battle between two rival Chinese clans, the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. A battle that will leave this square