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What did a dried-up old man like him know about women and all the wearying and infuriating annoyances they had to tolerate? All the helpful advice foisted on them by men with their I know better voices.
When I call her for the third time about the Greens, she finally loses her patience. “Call me when something actually happens,” she snaps at me. A week later, sixteen-year-old Tricia Talley disappears.
“Is that true? Goldfish can really live forty-three years?” said Jane. “Look it up.” “Why would you happen to know that completely useless piece of information?” “No information is useless. It’s just a key waiting for the right lock to open.” “Well, I am going to look it up. ’Cause every goldfish I ever owned was dead within a year.” “No comment.”
Maura could dissect a body, examine its tissues all the way down to the cellular level, but what the dead knew and saw and felt as the lights blinked out would remain a mystery.
Sometimes the only way for a woman to earn a man’s respect is to come packing heat.
He sees me through the foyer window so I can’t pretend I’m not home. Nor can I gracefully refuse to open the door. We women are too damn polite; we hate to hurt anyone’s feelings, even if it means getting strangled.
Glass that would have flown that far if the window were broken from the inside. And that would change everything.
It is not length of life, but depth of life. —Ralph Waldo Emerson For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. —Kahlil Gibran
When you have a child, you also grow new nerve endings that sense the slightest vibration of danger, of anything that’s not quite right.
It wasn’t enough to make a cop say this is important, this means something. But a mother doesn’t need evidence to know when something is wrong.
“Since we’re already logged in, all we need to do is go into her Google account.” Click. “Go to Activity and Timeline.” Click. “And open My Activity.” Click. “And there’s a list of her online searches, by date.” He swiveled around and smiled at Jane and Frost. “You’re welcome.” Jane stared at the screen. “Shit. Boston PD needs to hire you.”
Jamal clicked on the link and the screen filled with an old newspaper article: Ex-husband Sought in Murder of Colby College Professor.
That was the burden of working in homicide; you are always too late to change the victim’s fate.
“As a young woman, Artemisia was raped by her teacher. In this painting you can see her fury, feel her satisfaction in delivering her own brand of justice. It glorifies violence, but it’s violence in the name of justice. That’s why so many of my female students are fascinated by Artemisia. She gives life to female fantasies of punishing the men who abused them. It’s power to the powerless.”
Does anyone really look at their own mother? We’re just there, as reliable as gravity.
We women lose all our value when we age beyond our reproductive prime.”
“Excuse me for asking,” she says softly, “but are you okay? Are you safe?” “Oh, you mean this?” I point to my face. “Did someone hurt you?” “Yeah. He smacked me around pretty good.” “Oh honey, I hope you called the police. I hope you’re pressing charges.” “I don’t need to. He’s dead.” My grin seems to startle her and she slowly backs away. “But thanks for asking!” I call out as she retreats.
