Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

inevitable wear and tearon tendons and cartilage. It was yet another creaky reminder that a new generation always stood waiting in the wings.
    “So, based on what the witness told you,” said Dr. Owen, “this doesn’t sound like an accidental death.”
    “Unless she
accidentally
climbed over the railing and
accidentally
flung herself off the roof.”
    “Okay.” Dr. Owen stripped off her gloves. “I have to agree. Manner of death is suicide.”
    “Except we never saw it coming,” said Maura. “There was no warning at all.”
    In the dark, she could not see the expressions of the two cops, but could imagine them both rolling their eyes.
    “You want a suicide note?” one detective said.
    “I want a reason. I knew the woman.”
    “Wives think they
know
their husbands. And parents
know
their kids.”
    “Yes, I hear the same thing all the time after suicides.
We had no warning
. I’m fully aware that families are sometimes clueless. But this …” Maura paused, aware of three pairs of eyes watching her, the distinguished ME from Boston, trying to defend something as illogical as a hunch. “You have to understand, Dr. Welliver’s job was to counsel damaged children. To help them heal after severe emotional trauma. It was her life’s work, so why would she traumatize them further by making them see this? By dying in such a spectacular way?”
    “Do you have an answer?”
    “No, I don’t. Neither do her colleagues. No one on the faculty or staff understands this.”
    “Next of kin?” asked Dr. Owen. “Anyone who might provide insight?”
    “She was a widow. As far as Headmaster Baum knows, she has no family left.”
    “Then I’m afraid it’s just one of those unknowns,” said Dr. Owen.
    “But I will do an autopsy, even though the cause of death seems apparent.”
    Maura looked down at the body and thought: determining cause of death will be the easy part. Slice open skin, examine ruptured organs and shattered bones, and you’ll find answers. It was the questions she could not answer that troubled her. The motives, the secret torments that drove human beings to kill strangers or take their own lives.
    After the last official vehicle finally left that night, Maura made her way upstairs to the faculty common room, where most of the staff had gathered. A fire was burning in the hearth, but no one had turned on any of the lamps, as if none of them could bear any bright light on this tragic night. Maura sank into a velvet armchair and watched firelight flicker on the faces. She heard a soft clink as Gottfried poured a glass of brandy. Without a word he set it down on the table beside Maura, surmising that she, too, could use a stiff drink. She gave a nod and gratefully took a sip.
    “Someone here must have a clue why she did it,” said Lily. “There had to be some sign, something we didn’t realize was significant.”
    Gottfried said: “We can’t check her emails because I don’t have her password. But the police searched her personal effects, looking for a suicide note. Nothing. I spoke to the cook, the gardener, and they saw nothing of significance, not a single sign that Anna was suicidal.”
    “I saw her in the garden this morning, snipping roses for her desk,” said Lily “Does that sound like something a suicidal woman would do?”
    “How would we know?” Dr. Pasquantonio muttered. “
She
was the psychologist.”
    Gottfried looked around the room at his colleagues. “You’ve all spoken to the students. Do any of them have an answer?”
    “No one,” said Karla Duplessis, the literature teacher. “She had four student sessions scheduled today. Arthur Toombs was her lastappointment, at one P.M. , and he said she seemed a little distracted, but nothing else. The children are as bewildered as we are. If you think this is difficult for us, imagine how hard it is for them. Anna was tending to
their
emotional needs, and now they find out she was the fragile one. It makes them wonder if they can count on us. If adults are strong enough to stand by them.”
    “Which is why we can’t look weak. Not now.” The gruff words came from a shadowy corner of the room. It was Roman the forester, the only one who was not indulging in a comforting glass of brandy. “We have to go about our business as we always do.”
    “That would be unnatural,” said Karla. “We all need time to process this.”
    “
Process?
Just a fancy word for moping and wailing. The lady killed herself, there’s