Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

all tears, she lay down on the couch and fell at once into a deep and exhausted sleep.
    She came sharply awake to find herself in darkness. Her heart was pounding, her blouse soaked in sweat. Had there been a noise? The crack of glass, the tread of a footstep? Was that what had startled her from such a deep sleep? She dared not move a muscle, for fear she would miss the telltale sound of an intruder.
    Moving lights shone through the window, the headlights of a passing car. Her living room briefly brightened, then slid back into darkness. She listened to the hiss of cool air from the vent, the growl of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Nothing alien. Nothing that should inspire this crushing sense of dread.
    She sat up and summoned the courage to turn on the lamp. Imagined horrors instantly vanished in the warm glow of light. She rose from the couch, moving deliberately from room to room, turning on lights, looking into closets. On a rational level, she knew that there was no intruder, that her home, with its sophisticated alarm system and its dead bolts and its tightly latched windows, was as protected as any home could be. But she did not rest until this ritual had been completed and every dark nook had been searched. Only when she was satisfied that her security had not been breached did she allow herself to breathe easily again.
    It was ten-thirty. A Wednesday.
I need to talk to someone. Tonight I cannot deal with this alone.
    She sat down at her desk, booted up her computer, and watched as the screen flickered on. It was her lifeline, her therapist, this bundle of electronics and wires and plastic, the only safe place into which she could pour her pain.
    She typed in her screen name, CCORD, signed onto the Internet, and with a few clicks of the mouse, a few words typed on the keyboard, she navigated her way into the private chat room called, simply:
womanhelp
.
    Half a dozen familiar screen names were already there. Faceless, nameless women, all of them drawn to this safe and anonymous haven in cyberspace. She sat for a few moments, watching the messages scroll down the computer screen. Hearing, in her mind, the wounded voices of women she had never met, except in this virtual room.
     
    LAURIE45: So what did you do then?
    VOTIVE: I told him I wasn’t ready. I was still having flashbacks. I told him if he cared about me, he’d wait.
    HBREAKER: Good for you.
    WINKY98: Don’t let him rush you.
    LAURIE45: How did he react?
    VOTIVE: He said I should just GET OVER IT. Like I’m a wimp or something.
    WINKY98: Men should get raped!!!!
    HBREAKER: It took me two years before I was ready.
    LAURIE45: Over a year for me.
    WINKY98: All these guys think about are their dicks. It’s all about them. They just want their THING satisfied.
    LAURIE45: Ouch. You’re pissed off tonight, Wink.
    WINKY98: Maybe I am. Sometimes I think Lorena Bobbitt had the right idea.
    HBREAKER: Wink’s getting out her cleaver!
    VOTIVE: I don’t think he’s willing to wait. I think he’s given up on me.
    WINKY98: You’re worth waiting for. You’re WORTH IT!
     
    A few seconds passed, with the message box blank. Then,
     
    LAURIE45: Hello, CCord. It’s good to see you back.
     
    Catherine typed.
     
    CCORD: I see we’re talking about men again.
    LAURIE45: Yeah. How come we can’t ever get off this tired subject?
    VOTIVE: Because they’re the ones who hurt us.
     
    There was another long pause. Catherine took a deep breath and typed.
     
    CCORD: I had a bad day.
    LAURIE45: Tell us, CC. What happened?
     
    Catherine could almost hear the coo of female voices, gentle, soothing murmurs through the ether.
     
    CCORD: I had a panic attack tonight. I’m here, locked in my house, where no one can touch me and it still happens.
    WINKY98: Don’t let him win. Don’t let him make you a prisoner.
    CCORD: It’s too late. I am a prisoner. Because I realized something terrible tonight.
    WINKY98: What’s that?
    CCORD: Evil doesn’t die. It never dies. It just takes on a new face, a new name. Just because we’ve been touched by it once, it doesn’t mean we’re immune to ever being hurt again. Lightning can strike twice.
     
    No one typed anything. No one responded.
    No matter how careful we are, evil knows where we live, she thought. It knows how to find us.
    A drop of sweat slid down her back.
    And I feel it now. Closing in.
     
    Nina Peyton goes nowhere, sees no one. She has not been to her job in weeks. Today I called her office in Brookline,