The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

protecting
Cynthia
!”
    He was sparing her from the harm he believes I caused their family twelve years ago. While I refuse to feel guilty of any sin except self-preservation, I do acknowledge that Bradley’s death destroyed more than one life. I see the destruction in Kimball’s tormented face. It’s not surprising that he wants vengeance, not surprising that he has continued to search for me these past twelve years, pursuing me as obsessively as Jimmy Otto did.
    He has still not surrendered his gun despite the firing squad of detectives now facing him with their weapons aimed. What happens next cannot possibly surprise anyone in that room. I can see it in Kimball’s eyes as surely as Jane Rizzoli can. The acceptance. The resignation. Without any preamble, any hesitation, he shoves the gun barrel into his own mouth and pulls the trigger.
    The explosion sends a scarlet spray of blood onto the wall. His legs buckle and his body drops like a sack of stones.
    It is not the first time I’ve seen death. I should be immune to the view by now. But as I stare at his destroyed head, at blood that seeps from his shattered skull and pools on the bedroom floor, I suddenly feel as if I am choking. I tear open my blouse and claw at the Kevlar vest that Jane Rizzoli had insisted I wear. Though the vest stopped the bullet, I still smart from the impact. The bullet will almost certainly leave a bruise. I pull off the vest and toss it aside. I don’t care that the four men in the room can see my bra. I rip away the microphone and wires that are taped to my skin, a device that has saved my life tonight. Had I not been wired, had the police not been listening, they would not have heard my conversation with Kimball. They would not have known that he was already inside my house.
    Outside, sirens are screaming closer.
    I rebutton my blouse, rise to my feet, and try not to look at the body of Kimball Rose as I walk out of the room.
    Outside, the warm night is alive with radio chatter and the flashing rack lights of police vehicles. I am clearly visible in that kaleidoscopic glare, but I do not shrink from the light. For the first time in a quarter of a century, I do not have to hide in the shadows.
    “Are you okay?”
    I turn and see Detective Rizzoli standing beside me. “I’m fine,” I say.
    “I’m sorry about what happened in there. He should never have gotten so close to you.”
    “But it’s over now.” I take a sweet breath of freedom. “That’s all that matters. It’s finally over.”
    “You still face a number of questions from the San Diego PD. About Bradley’s death. About what happened that night.”
    “I can deal with it.”
    There’s a pause. “Yeah, you can,” she says. “I’m sure you can deal with anything.” I hear a quiet note of respect in her voice, the same respect I’ve learned to feel toward her.
    “May I leave now?” I ask.
    “As long as we always know where you are.”
    “You know where to find me.”
It will be wherever my daughter is.
I sketch a small salute of farewell in the darkness and walk to my car.
    Over the years I have fantasized about this moment, about a day when I would not have to look over my shoulder, when I can finally answer to my real name without fear of consequences. In my dreams, it is a moment of incandescent joy, when the clouds would part, the champagne would flow, and I would shout out my happiness to the sky. But this reality is not what I expected. What I feel instead of delirious, foot-stomping joy is more subdued. I feel relieved and weary and a little lost. All these years, fear has been my constant companion; now I must learn to live without it.
    As I drive north, I feel the fear peel away like layers of timeworn linen that flutter away in streams and float off into the night. I let it go. I leave it all behind and drive north, toward a little house in Chelsea.
    Toward my daughter.

A CKNOWLEDGMENTS
     
    I owe a huge debt of thanks to Dr. Jonathan Elias of the Akhmim Mummy Studies Consortium, and to Joann Potter of the Vassar College Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center, for allowing me to share in the excitement of Shep-en-Min’s CT scan. Many thanks as well to Linda Marrow for her brilliant editorial suggestions, to Selina Walker for her keen insights, and to my tireless literary agent, Meg Ruley of the Jane Rotrosen Agency.

    Most of all, I thank my husband, Jacob. For everything.

A BOUT THE A UTHOR
     
    T ESS G ERRITSEN is a physician and an