The beam fell squarely on the woman’s face, which stared toward the window. Her right cheek rested against the steering wheel; her eyes were open.

Maura could not speak. She gaped at the ivory skin, the black hair, the full lips, 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.

SHE 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 a few miles from here.”

“The residence is an apartment building. Her neighbors don’t seem to know much about her. We’re still trying to reach the landlady, to let us into the unit.”

“Does the name Jessop ring any bells?” asked Rizzoli.

She shook her heard. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Do you know anyone in Maine?”

“Why do you ask?”

“There was a speeding ticket in her purse. Looks like she got pulled over two days ago, driving south on the Maine Turnpike.”

“I don’t know anyone in Maine.” Maura took a deep breath. Asked: “Who found her?”

“Your neighbor Mr. Telushkin made the call,” said Rizzoli. “He was out walking his dog when he noticed the Taurus parked at the curb.”

“When was that?”

“Around eight P.M.”

Of course, thought Maura. Mr. Telushkin walked his dog at precisely the same time every night. Engineers were like that, precise and predictable. But tonight he had encountered the unpredictable.

“He didn’t hear anything?” Maura asked.

“He said he’d heard what he thought was a car backfiring, maybe ten minutes before that. But no one saw it happen. After he found the Taurus, he called nine-one-one. Reported that someone had just shot his neighbor, Dr. Isles. Brookline Police responded first, along with Detective Eckert here. Frost and I arrived around nine.”

“Why?” Maura said, finally asking a question that had occurred to her when she’d first spotted Rizzoli standing on her front lawn. “Why are you in Brookline? This isn’t your beat.”

Rizzoli glanced at Detective Eckert.

He said, a little sheepishly, “You know, we only had one homicide last year in Brookline. We thought, under the circumstances, it made sense to call in Boston.”

Yes, it did make sense, Maura realized. Brookline was little more than a bedroom community trapped within the city of Boston. Last year, Boston PD had investigated sixty homicides. Practice made perfect, with murder investigations as well as anything else.

“We would have come in on this anyway,” said Rizzoli. “After we heard who the victim was. Who we thought it was.” She paused. “I have to admit, it never even occurred to me that it might not be you. I took one look at the victim and assumed…”

“We all did,” said Frost.

There was a silence.

“We knew you were due to fly home this evening from Paris,” said Rizzoli. “ That’s what your secretary told us. The only thing that didn’t make sense to us was the car. Why you’d be sitting in a car registered to another woman.”

Maura drained her glass and set it on the coffee table. One drink was all she could handle tonight. Already, her limbs were numb and she was having trouble focusing. The room had softened to a blur, the lamps casting everything in a warm glow. This is not real, she thought. I’m asleep in a jet somewhere over the Atlantic, and I’ll wake up to find the plane has landed. That none of this has happened.

“We don’t know anything yet about Anna Jessop,” said Rizzoli. “All we do know-what we’ve all seen with our own eyes-is that whoever she is, she’s a dead ringer for you, Doc. Maybe her hair’s a little longer. Maybe there’s a few differences here and there. But the point is, we were fooled. All of us. And we know you.” She paused. “You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?”

Yes, Maura could, but she didn’t want to say it. She just sat staring at the glass on the coffee table. At the melting ice cubes.

“If we were fooled, anyone else could have been as well,” said Rizzoli. “Including whoever fired that bullet into her head. It was just before eight P.M. when your neighbor heard the backfire. Already getting dark. And there she was, sitting in a parked car just a few yards from your driveway. Anyone seeing her in that car would assume it’s you.”