Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

think I know who these people were, Doug. The people who lived here. I think I’m seeing their ghosts. They were waiting for the end of the world. For the Rapture. Maybe it came, and we just don’t know it yet.”
    Doug laughed. “Trust me, Arlo. The Rapture is not what happened to these people.”
    “Dad?” Grace asked softly from the corner. She sat up, pulling the blanket close around her. “What’s he talking about?”
    “The pills are confusing him, that’s all.”
    “What’s the Rapture?”
    Doug and Maura looked at each other, and he sighed. “It’s just a superstition, honey. A crazy belief that the world as we know it is doomed to end with Armageddon. And when it does, God’s chosen people will be sucked straight up to heaven.”
    “What happens to everyone else?”
    “Everyone else is trapped on earth.”
    “And slaughtered,” whispered Arlo. “All the sinners left behind will be slaughtered.”
    “What?” Grace looked at her father with frightened eyes.
    “Honey, it’s nonsense. Forget it.”
    “But some people really believe it? They believe the end of the world is coming?”
    “Some people also believe in alien abductions. Use your noggin, Grace! Do you really think people are going to be magically transported to heaven?”
    The window rattled, as though something were clawing at the glass, trying to get in. A draft of air moaned down the chimney, scattering flames and sending a gust of smoke into the room.
    Grace hugged her knees to her chest. Staring up at the wavering shadows, she whispered: “Then where did all these people go?”

T HE GIRL WAS TWENTY-THREE POUNDS OF
NO! N O, BED ! N O, SLEEP !
No, no, no!
    Jane and Gabriel slumped bleary-eyed on the sofa and watched their daughter, Regina, spin around and around like a pygmy dervish.
    “How long can she possibly stay awake?” asked Jane.
    “Longer than we can.”
    “You’d think she’d get sick and throw up.”
    “You would think,” said Gabriel.
    “Someone has to take control here.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Someone has to be the parent.”
    “I absolutely agree.” He looked at Jane.
    “What?”
    “It’s your turn to play bad cop.”
    “Why me?”
    “Because you’re so good at it. Besides, I put her to bed the last three times. She just doesn’t listen to me.”
    “Because she figured out that Mr. FBI is a total marshmallow.”
    He looked at his watch. “Jane, it’s midnight.”
    Their daughter only whirled faster. When I was her age, was I just as exhausting? Jane wondered. This must be what the term
poetic justice
meant. Someday, you’ll have a daughter just like you, her mother used to complain.
    And here she is
.
    Groaning, Jane shoved herself off the sofa, the bad cop at last springing into action. “Time for bed, Regina,” she said.
    “No.”
    “Yes it is.”
    “No!”
The imp scampered away, black curls bouncing. Jane corralled her in the kitchen and scooped her up. It was like trying to hold on to a flopping fish, every muscle and sinew fighting her.
    “No
go!
No
go!
”
    “Yes, go,” said Jane, carrying her daughter toward the nursery as little arms and legs flailed at her. She set Regina in the crib, turned off the light, and shut the door. That only made her cries more piercing. Not wails of distress but of sheer fury.
    The phone rang.
Oh hell, it’s the neighbors, calling to complain again
.
    “Tell them that giving her Valium is not an option!” Jane said as Gabriel went into the kitchen to answer the phone.
    “We’re the ones who need the Valium,” he told her, then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    Too weary to stand straight, she slumped in the kitchen doorway, imagining the diatribe now pouring from that receiver. It had to be those Windsor-Millers, the thirty-somethings who’d moved into the building only a month ago. Already they’d called to complain at least a dozen times.
Your child keeps us awake all night. We both have demanding jobs, you know. Can’t you control her?
TheWindsor-Millers had no kids of their own, so it wouldn’t occur to them that an eighteen-month-old couldn’t be turned on and off like a TV set. Jane had once caught a glimpse inside their apartment, and it was spotless. White sofa, white carpet, white walls. The apartment of a couple who’d freak out at the thought of sticky little hands getting anywhere near their precious furniture.
    “It’s for you,” said Gabriel, holding out the receiver.
    “The neighbors?”
    “Daniel