Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

happy?”
    “He’s your father, Jane. Does that mean so little to you?”
    Jane gave a confused shake of the head. “This has nothing to do with me. It’s about you and what you want.”
    “What if what I want makes me feel guilty? What if I marry Vinceand spend the rest of my life regretting that I didn’t give our family a second chance? Frankie, for one, will never forgive me. And then there’s Father Flanagan and everyone at church. And the neighbors …”
    “Forget the neighbors.”
They’re a lost cause
.
    “So you see, there’s a lot to consider here. It was so much easier when I was the wronged woman, and everyone was saying
You go, girl!
Now it’s all flipped around and I’m the one breaking up the family. You know how hard that is for me? Being the scarlet woman?”
    Better scarlet, thought Jane, than depressed and gray. She reached across the table to touch her mother’s arm. “You deserve to be happy, that’s all I can say. Don’t let Father Flanagan or Mrs. Kaminsky or Frankie talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
    “I wish I could be like you, so sure of yourself. I look at you and I think, how did I raise such a strong daughter? Someone who makes breakfast, feeds her baby, and then takes down perps?”
    “I’m strong because you made me that way, Ma.”
    Angela laughed. Ran a hand across her eyes. “Yeah, right. Look at me, a babbling mess. Torn between my lover and my family.”
    “This member of the family wants you to stop worrying about us.”
    “Impossible. When they say your family is flesh and blood, that’s exactly what it means. If I lose Frankie because of this, it’ll be like cutting off my own arm. When you lose your family, you lose everything.”
    T HOSE WORDS ECHOED IN Jane’s head as she drove home that evening. Her mother was right: If you lost your family, you lost everything. She’d seen what happened to people who lost husbands or wives or children to murder. She’d seen how grief shriveled lives, how faces aged overnight. As hard as she might try to offer them comfort, to promise them closure through justice, she did not really know, or want to know, the depths of their suffering. Only another victim would truly understand.
    Which was why a school like Evensong existed. It was a place for the wounded to heal, among those who understood.
    She’d spoken with Maura that morning, but had not updated her about Zapata’s fate. With their prime suspect dead, and Teddy presumably no longer in danger, they had to decide whether it might be time to bring him back to Boston. She pulled into her apartment parking lot and was about to call Maura’s cell phone when she remembered there was no reception at Evensong. Scrolling down her call log, she found the landline number that Maura had last called from, and dialed it.
    Six rings later, a tremulous voice answered: “Evensong.”
    “Dr. Welliver, is that you? It’s Detective Rizzoli.” She waited for an answer. “Hello, are you there?”
    “Yes. Yes.” A startled laugh. “Oh my God, they’re so beautiful!”
    “What’s beautiful?”
    “I’ve never seen birds like those. And the sky, such strange colors …”
    “Um, Dr. Welliver? May I speak to Dr. Isles?”
    “I don’t know where she is.”
    “Could you ask her to call me back? You’ll be seeing her at dinner, right?”
    “I’m not going. Everything tastes funny today. Oh! Oh!” Welliver gave a squeal of delight. “If you could just see these birds! They’re so close, I could touch them!”
    Jane heard her set down the receiver. Heard footsteps walking away.
    “Dr. Welliver? Hello?”
    There was no answer.
    Jane frowned as she disconnected, wondering what species of bird could have so enchanted the woman. She had a sudden vision of pterodactyls swooping in over the Maine woods.
    In the world that was Evensong, anything seemed possible.

TWENTY-ONE
 
    C HICKEN KILLER .
    Though no one said it to her face, Claire knew what they were whispering as they leaned their heads together and shot glances at her from the other dining tables.
She’s the one
. Everyone knew that Claire had tried to kick Herman a few days ago, outside the stables. Which made her the chief suspect. In the court of gossip, she’d already been tried and convicted.
    She speared a brussels sprout and it tasted as bitter as her resentment, but she ate it anyway, chewing mechanically as she tried to ignore the whispers, the stares. As always, Briana was the