{"product_id":"body-double-isbn-9780345547712","title":"Body Double","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eJane Rizzoli and Maura Isles—the inspiration for the hit TNT series—continue their bestselling crime-solving streak.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“Crime writing at its unputdownable, nerve-tingling best.”—Harlan Coben\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Boston medical examiner Dr. Maura Isles is shocked to discover that the murdered woman looks exactly like her. For Maura, an only child, a DNA test confirms the startling fact: the mysterious doppelgänger is in fact her twin sister. Now an already bizarre homicide investigation becomes a disturbing excursion into a past full of dark secrets and twisted truths. It is a journey that leads Maura to the mother she never knew—an icy and cunning woman who gave Maura life . . . and who just might have a plan to take it away.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eDon’t miss Tess Gerritsen’s short story “John Doe” and a special excerpt from her novel \u003ci\u003eGirl Missing\u003c\/i\u003e in the back of the book.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for Tess Gerritsen and \u003ci\u003eBody Double\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One of the most versatile voices in thriller fiction today.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“Masterful . . . Gerritsen rises to her best yet.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The story zips along.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chilling suspense . . . leaves the reader breathless.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Tess Gerritsen and \u003ci\u003eBody Double\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One of the most versatile voices in thriller fiction today.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Crime writing at its unputdownable, nerve-tingling best.”\u003cb\u003e—Harlan Coben\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Masterful . . . Gerritsen rises to her best yet.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The story zips along.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chilling suspense . . . leaves the reader breathless.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003cb\u003eTess Gerritsen\u003c\/b\u003e earned international acclaim for her first novel of suspense, \u003ci\u003eHarvest\u003c\/i\u003e. She introduced detective Jane Rizzoli in \u003ci\u003eThe Surgeon\u003c\/i\u003e (2001) and Dr. Maura Isles in \u003ci\u003eThe Apprentice\u003c\/i\u003e (2002) and has gone on to write numerous other titles in the celebrated Rizzoli \u0026amp; Isles series, including \u003ci\u003eThe Mephisto Club, The Keepsake, Ice Cold, The Silent Girl, Last to Die, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eDie Again. \u003c\/i\u003eHer latest novel is the standalone thriller \u003ci\u003ePlaying with Fire.\u003c\/i\u003e A physician, Tess Gerritsen lives in Maine.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePesez le matin que vous n'irez peut-être pas jusqu'au soir,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEt au soir que vous n'irez peut-être pas jusqu'au matin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe aware every morning that you may not last the day,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd every evening that you may not last the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-Engraved plaque in the catacombs of Paris\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA row of skulls glared from atop a wall of intricately stacked femurs  and tibias. Though it was June, and she knew the sun was shining on the  streets of Paris sixty feet above her, Dr. Maura Isles felt chilled as  she walked down the dim passageway, its walls lined almost to the  ceiling with human remains. She was familiar, even intimate, with  death, and had confronted its face countless times on her autopsy  table, but she was stunned by the scale of this display, by the sheer  number of bones stored in this network of tunnels beneath the City of  Light. The one-kilometer tour took her through only a small section of  the catacombs. Off-limits to tourists were numerous side tunnels and  bone-filled chambers, their dark mouths gaping seductively behind  locked gates. Here were the remains of six million Parisians who had  once felt the sun on their faces, who had hungered and thirsted and  loved, who had felt the beating of their own hearts in their chests,  the rush of air in and out of their lungs. They could never have  imagined that one day their bones would be unearthed from their  cemetery resting places, and moved to this grim ossuary beneath the  city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat one day they would be on display, to be gawked at by hordes of  tourists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA century and a half ago, to make room for the steady influx of dead  into Paris's overcrowded cemeteries, the bones had been disinterred and  moved into the vast honeycomb of ancient limestone quarries that lay  deep beneath the city. The workmen who'd transferred the bones had not  carelessly tossed them into piles, but had performed their macabre task  with flair, meticulously stacking them to form whimsical designs. Like  fussy stonemasons, they had built high walls decorated with alternating  layers of skulls and long bones, turning decay into an artistic  statement. And they had hung plaques engraved with grim quotations,  reminders to all who walked these passageways that Death spares no one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of the plaques caught Maura's eye, and she paused among the flow of  tourists to read it. As she struggled to translate the words using her  shaky high school French, she heard the incongruous sound of children's  laughter echoing in the dim corridors, and the twang of a man's Texas  accent as he muttered to his wife. \"Can you believe this place, Sherry?  Gives me the goddamn creeps . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Texas couple moved on, their voices fading into silence. For a  moment Maura was alone in the chamber, breathing in the dust of the  centuries. Under the dim glow of the tunnel light, mold had flourished  on a cluster of skulls, coating them in a greenish cast. A single  bullet hole gaped in the forehead of one skull, like a third eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know how you died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chill of the tunnel had seeped into her own bones. But she did not  move, determined to translate that plaque, to quell her horror by  engaging in a useless intellectual puzzle. Come on, Maura. Three years  of high school French, and you can't figure this out? It was a personal  challenge now, all thoughts of mortality temporarily held at bay. Then  the words took on meaning, and she felt her blood go cold . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHappy is he who is forever faced with the hour of his death\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd prepares himself for the end every day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly she noticed the silence. No voices, no echoing footsteps. She  turned and left that gloomy chamber. How had she fallen so far behind  the other tourists? She was alone in this tunnel, alone with the dead.  She thought about unexpected power outages, about wandering the wrong  way in pitch darkness. She'd heard of Parisian workmen a century ago  who had lost their way in the catacombs and died of starvation. Her  pace quickened as she sought to catch up with the others, to rejoin the  company of the living. She felt Death pressing in too closely in these  tunnels. The skulls seemed to stare back at her with resentment, a  chorus of six million berating her for her ghoulish curiosity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were once as alive as you are. Do you think you can escape the  future you see here?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen at last she emerged from the catacombs and stepped into the  sunshine on Rue Remy Dumoncel, she took in deep breaths of air. For  once she welcomed the noise of traffic, the press of the crowd, as if  she had just been granted a second chance at life. The colors seemed  brighter, the faces friendlier. My last day in Paris, she thought, and  only now do I really appreciate the beauty of this city. She had spent  most of the past week trapped in meeting rooms, attending the  International Conference of Forensic Pathology. There had been so  little time for sightseeing, and even the tours arranged by the  conference organizers had been related to death and illness: the  medical museum, the old surgical theater.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe catacombs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf all the memories to bring back from Paris, how ironic that her most  vivid one would be of human remains. That's not healthy, she thought as  she sat at an outdoor café, savoring one last cup of espresso and a  strawberry tart. In two days, I'll be back in my autopsy room,  surrounded by stainless steel, shut off from sunlight. Breathing only  the cold, filtered air flowing from the vents. This day will seem like  a memory of paradise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe took her time, recording those memories. The smell of coffee, the  taste of buttery pastry. The natty businessmen with cell phones pressed  to their ears, the intricate knots of the scarves fluttering around  women's throats. She entertained the fantasy that surely danced in the  head of every American who had ever visited Paris: What would it be  like to miss my plane? To just linger here, in this café, in this  glorious city, for the rest of my life?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut in the end, she rose from her table and hailed a taxi to the  airport. In the end she walked away from the fantasy, from Paris, but  only because she promised herself she would someday return. She just  didn't know when.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer flight home was delayed three hours. That's three hours I could  have spent walking along the Seine, she thought as she sat disgruntled  in Charles de Gaulle. Three hours I could have wandered the Marais or  poked around in Les Halles. Instead she was trapped in an airport so  crowded with travelers she could find no place to sit. By the time she  finally boarded the Air France jet, she was tired and thoroughly  cranky. One glass of wine with the in-flight meal was all it took for  her to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly as the plane began its descent into Boston did she awaken. Her  head ached, and the setting sun glared in her eyes. The headache  intensified as she stood in baggage claim, watching suitcase after  suitcase, none of them hers, slide down the ramp. It grew to a  relentless pounding as she later waited in line to file a claim for her  missing luggage. By the time she finally stepped into a taxi with only  her carry-on bag, darkness had fallen, and she wanted nothing more than  a hot bath and a hefty dose of Advil. She sank back in the taxi and  once again drifted off to sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sudden braking of the vehicle awakened her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's going on here?\" she heard the driver say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStirring, she gazed through bleary eyes at flashing blue lights. It  took a moment for her to register what she was looking at. Then she  realized that they had turned onto the street where she lived, and she  sat up, instantly alert, alarmed by what she saw. Four Brookline police  cruisers were parked, their roof lights slicing through the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Looks like some kind of emergency going on,\" the driver said. \"This is  your street, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And that's my house right down there. Middle of the block.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where all the police cars are? I don't think they're gonna let us  through.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if to confirm the taxi driver's words, a patrolman approached,  waving at them to turn around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cabbie stuck his head out the window. \"I got a passenger here I  need to drop off. She lives on this street.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sorry, bud. This whole block's cordoned off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaura leaned forward and said to the driver, \"Look, I'll just get out  here.\" She handed him the fare, grabbed her carry-on bag, and stepped  out of the taxi. Only moments before, she'd felt dull and groggy; now  the warm June night itself seemed electric with tension. She started up  the sidewalk, her sense of anxiety growing as she drew closer to the  gathering of bystanders, as she saw all the official vehicles parked in  front of her house. Had something happened to one of her neighbors? A  host of terrible possibilities passed through her mind. Suicide.  Homicide. She thought of Mr. Telushkin, the unmarried robotics engineer  who lived next door. Hadn't he seemed particularly melancholy when  she'd last seen him? She thought, too, of Lily and Susan, her neighbors  on the other side, two lesbian attorneys whose gay rights activism made  them high-profile targets. Then she spotted Lily and Susan standing at  the edge of the crowd, both of them very much alive, and her concern  flew back to Mr. Telushkin, whom she did not see among the onlookers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLily glanced sideways and saw Maura approaching. She did not wave but  just stared at her, wordless, and gave Susan a sharp nudge. Susan  turned to look at Maura, and her jaw dropped open. Now other neighbors  were turning to stare as well, all their faces registering  astonishment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy are they looking at me? Maura wondered. What have I done?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dr. Isles?\" A Brookline patrolman stood gaping at her. \"It is-it is  you, isn't it?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, that was a stupid question, she thought. \"That's my house, there.  What's going on, officer?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe patrolman huffed out a sharp breath. \"Um-I think you'd better come  with me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe took her by the arm and led her through the crowd. Her neighbors  solemnly parted before her, as though making way for a condemned  prisoner. Their silence was eerie; the only sound was the crackle of  police radios. They reached a barrier of yellow police tape, strung  between stakes, several of them pounded into Mr. Telushkin's front  yard. He's proud of his lawn and he's not going to be happy about that,  was her immediate and utterly inane thought. The patrolman lifted the  tape and she ducked under it, crossing into what she now realized was a  crime scene.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe knew it was a crime scene because she spotted a familiar figure  standing at the center of it. Even from across the lawn, Maura could  recognize homicide detective Jane Rizzoli. Now eight months pregnant,  the petite Rizzoli looked like a ripe pear in a pantsuit. Her presence  was yet another bewildering detail. What was a Boston detective doing  here in Brookline, outside her usual jurisdiction? Rizzoli did not see  Maura approaching; her gaze was fixed instead on a car parked at the  curb in front of Mr. Telushkin's house. She was shaking her head,  clearly upset, her dark curls springing out in their usual disarray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was Rizzoli's partner, Detective Barry Frost, who spotted Maura  first. He glanced at her, glanced away, and then did a sudden double  take, his pale face whipping back to stare at her. Wordlessly he tugged  on his partner's arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRizzoli went absolutely still, the strobelike flashes of blue cruiser  lights illuminating her expression of disbelief. She began to walk, as  though in a trance, toward Maura.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Doc?\" Rizzoli said softly. \"Is that you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who else would it be? Why does everyone keep asking me that? Why do  you all look at me as though I'm a ghost?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Because . . .\" Rizzoli stopped. Gave a shake of her head, tossing  unkempt curls. \"Jesus. I thought for a minute you were a ghost.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRizzoli turned and called out: \"Father Brophy?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaura had not seen the priest standing off by himself at the periphery.  Now he emerged from the shadows, his collar a slash of white across his  neck. His usually handsome face looked gaunt, his expression  shell-shocked. Why is Daniel here? Priests were not usually called to  crime scenes unless a victim's family requested counsel. Her neighbor  Mr. Telushkin was not Catholic, but Jewish. He would have no reason to  request a priest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Could you please take her into the house, Father?\" Rizzoli said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaura asked: \"Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Go inside, Doc. Please. We'll explain later.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaura felt Brophy's arm slip around her waist, his firm grasp clearly  communicating that this was not the time for her to resist. That she  should simply obey the detective's request. She allowed him to guide  her to her front door, and she registered the secret thrill of the  close contact between them, the warmth of his body pressed against  hers. She was so aware of him standing beside her that her hands were  clumsy as she inserted the key into her front door. Though they had  been friends for months, she had never before invited Daniel Brophy  into her house, and her reaction to him now was a reminder of why she  had so carefully maintained a distance between them. They stepped  inside, into a living room where the lamps were already on, lit by  automatic timers. She paused for a moment near the couch, uncertain of  what to do next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was Father Brophy who took command.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sit down,\" he said, pointing her to the couch. \"I'll get you something  to drink.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're the guest in my house. I should be offering you the drink,\" she  said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not under the circumstances.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't even know what the circumstances are.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Detective Rizzoli will tell you.\" He left the room and came back with  a glass of water-not exactly her beverage of choice at that moment, but  then, it didn't seem appropriate to ask a priest to fetch the bottle of  vodka. She sipped the water, feeling uneasy under his gaze. He sank  into the chair across from her, watching her as though afraid she might  vanish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt last she heard Rizzoli and Frost come into the house, heard them  murmuring in the foyer to a third person, a voice Maura didn't  recognize. Secrets, she thought. Why is everyone keeping secrets from  me? What don't they want me to know?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked up as the two detectives walked into the living room. With  them was a man who introduced himself as Brookline Detective Eckert, a  name she'd probably forget within five minutes. Her attention was  completely focused on Rizzoli, with whom she had worked before. A woman  she both liked and respected.New York Times bestseller; Author of Last to Die; Rizzoli \u0026amp; Isles; Hit series on TNT; Includes bonus material","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302801395941,"sku":"NP9780345547712","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345547712.jpg?v=1767722901","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/body-double-isbn-9780345547712","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}