Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

were murdered. Shot to death.”
    In the pause that followed, Jane suddenly realized how quiet the house was. So quiet that she asked her next question in a hushed voice. “And Teddy? How did he survive?”
    “Cecilia told me he was found in the water, floating in his life jacket. And he didn’t remember how he got there.” Mrs. Lyman looked at the closed door to the conservatory. “Now you understand why this is so devastating for him. It’s awful enough to lose your family once. But to have it happen again?” She shook her head. “It’s more than any child should have to endure.”

FIVE
 
    T HEY COULD NOT HAVE CHOSEN A MORE SOOTHING PLACE FOR A traumatized child than Mrs. Lyman’s garden conservatory. Enclosed in glass, the room’s windows faced a private walled garden. Morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, nourishing a humid jungle of vines and ferns and potted trees. In that lush overgrowth Jane did not spot the boy, but saw only the female police officer who quickly rose from a rattan garden chair.
    “Detective Rizzoli? I’m Officer Vasquez,” the woman said.
    “How’s Teddy?” said Jane.
    Vasquez glanced at a corner, where the vines had grown over to form a thick canopy, and whispered: “He hasn’t said a word to me. Just kind of hides away and whimpers.”
    Only then did Jane locate the spindly figure crouched beneath the bower of vines. He was folded into himself, arms hugging his legs to his chest. Although they’d told her he was fourteen, he looked much younger, clothed in powder-blue pajamas, a forelock of light brown hair hiding his face.
    Jane dropped down to her knees and crawled toward him, ducking beneath vines as she moved deeper into the leafy shadows. The boy didn’t move as she settled down beside him in his jungle hiding place.
    “Teddy,” she said. “My name is Jane. I’m here to help you.”
    He didn’t look up, didn’t respond.
    “You’ve been sitting here awhile, haven’t you? You must be hungry.”
    Was that a shake of the head she saw? Or was it a shudder, a seismic quake from all the pain bottled up inside that fragile body?
    “What do you think about some chocolate milk? Maybe ice cream? I bet Mrs. Lyman has some in her refrigerator.”
    The boy seemed to recede even more deeply into himself, curling into such a tight knot that Jane feared they would never be able to pry open those limbs. She peered up through the tangle of vines at Officer Vasquez, who stood watching intently. “Can you leave us?” she said. “I think it’s a little too much right now, having both of us in the room.”
    Vasquez left the conservatory, closing the door behind her. For ten minutes, fifteen, Jane didn’t say a word, nor did she look at the boy. They sat side by side, companions in silence, and the only sound was the gentle splash of water in a marble fountain. Leaning back in the bower, she gazed up at the arching branches overhead. In this Garden of Eden, sheltered from the cold, even banana and orange trees thrived, and she imagined walking into this room on a winter’s day, when the snow was falling outside, and breathing in the scent of warm earth and green plants. This is what money buys you, she thought. Eternal springtime. While she kept her gaze fixed on the sunlight above, she was aware of the boy’s breathing beside her. It was slower, calmer than it had been moments ago. She heard leaves rustle as he settled against the vines, but she resisted the temptation to look at him. She thought about the earsplitting tantrums that her two-year-old daughter had thrown last week, when little Regina hadscreamed again and again,
Stop looking at me! Stop looking!
Jane and her husband, Gabriel, had laughed, which only enraged Regina more. Even two-year-olds did not like being stared at, and resented having their privacy invaded. So she tried not to invade Teddy Clock’s, but merely shared his leafy cave. Even when she heard him move, her attention stayed focused instead on the dappled sunshine shining through the branches above.
    “Who are you?” The words were barely a whisper. She forced herself to remain still, to let a pause settle between them.
    “I’m Jane,” she said, just as softly.
    “But who are you?”
    “I’m a friend.”
    “No you’re not. I don’t even know you.”
    She considered his words, and had to admit they were true. She was not his friend. She was a cop who needed something from him, and once she’d gotten it she would hand