Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

Detective Moore.”
    “Yes, I got that message. I just want to know …” She swallowed back tears. “I want to know why things have changed.”
    “It’s to, uh, streamline the investigation.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “We need Moore to focus on other aspects of the case.”
    “Who decided that?”
    Frost was looking more and more unhappy. “I don’t really know, Dr. Cordell.”
    “Was it Moore?”
    Another pause. “No.”
    “So it’s not that he doesn’t want to see me.”
    “I’m sure that’s not the case.”
    She did not know if he was telling her the truth or simply trying to soothe her. She noticed that two detectives in another workpod were staring in her direction, and she flushed with sudden anger. Did everyone but her know the truth? Was that pity she saw in their eyes? All morning she had savored the memories of last night. She had waited for Moore to call, had longed to hear his voice and know that he was thinking of her. But he had not called.
    And at noon, she’d been handed Frost’s telephoned message that in the future she should direct all concerns to him.
    It was all she could do now to hold her head up and keep the tears under control as she asked: “Is there some reason I can’t talk to him?”
    “I’m afraid he’s not in town right now. He left this afternoon.”
    “I see.” She understood, without being told, that this was as much as he would reveal. She didn’t ask where Moore had gone, nor did she ask how to reach him. Already she had embarrassed herself by coming here, and now pride took over. For the last two years, the sheer force of pride had been her main source of strength. It had kept her marching forward, day after day, refusing to wear the cloak of victimhood. Others looking at her saw only cool competence and emotional distance, because it was all she allowed them to see.
    Only Moore saw me as I really am. Damaged and vulnerable. And this is the result. This is why I can’t ever be weak again.
    When she rose to leave, her spine was straight, her gaze steady. As she walked out of the workpod, she passed Moore’s desk. She knew it was his because of the nameplate. She paused just long enough to focus on the photograph displayed there, of a smiling woman, with the sun in her hair.
    She walked out, leaving behind Moore’s world, and returned in sorrow to her own.
     

eighteen
    M oore had thought the heat in Boston was unbearable; he was unprepared to deal with Savannah. Walking out of the airport late that afternoon was like instant submersion in a hot bath, and he felt as though he were wading through liquid, his limbs sluggish as he proceeded toward the rental car parking lot, where watery air rippled above the macadam. By the time he checked into his hotel room, his shirt was drenched in sweat. He stripped off his clothes, lay down on the bed for just a few minutes’ rest, and ended up sleeping through the afternoon.
    When he awakened, it was dark, and he was shivering in the over-cooled room. He sat up on the side of the bed, his head pounding.
    He pulled a fresh shirt from his suitcase, got dressed, and left the hotel.
    Even at night, the air was like steam, but he drove with his window open, inhaling the damp smells of the South. Though he’d never been to Savannah before, he’d heard of its charm, its fine old homes and wrought-iron benches and
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
. But tonight he was not on a quest for tourist sites. He was driving to a particular address in the northeast corner of town. It was a pleasant neighborhood of small but tidy homes with front porches and fenced gardens and trees with spreading branches. He found his way to Ronda Street and pulled to a stop in front of the house.
    Inside the lights were on, and he could see the blue glow of a TV.
    He wondered who lived there now and whether the current occupants knew the history of their house. When they turned off the lights at night and climbed into bed, did they ever think about what had happened in that very room? Lying in the darkness, did they listen for the echoes of terror still reverberating within those walls?
    A silhouette moved past the window—a woman’s, slender and long-haired. Very much like Catherine’s.
    He saw it now, in his mind’s eye. The young man on the porch, knocking on the front door. The door opening, spilling golden light into the darkness. Catherine standing there, haloed by that light, inviting in the young colleague she knew