The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

I’ll ask Dr. Bristol to draw the tox screen when he does the autopsy.”
    “I assumed you’d be doing it.”
    “No. I’m going to hand this case over to one of my colleagues. If you have any questions after the holidays, you should speak to Dr. Abe Bristol.”
    She was relieved when he didn’t ask her why she was not doing the autopsy. And what would she have said?
My ex-husband is now a suspect in this death. I cannot let there be even a whisper of a question that I’ve been less than thorough. Less than complete.
    “The priest is here,” said Sutcliffe. “I guess it’s time.”
    She turned and felt her cheeks flush when she saw Father Brophy standing in the doorway. Their eyes locked in instant familiarity, the gaze of two people who, at that somber moment, have suddenly recognized the sparks between them. She dropped her gaze as he stepped into the cubicle. She and Sutcliffe withdrew to allow the priest to administer last rites.
    Through the cubicle window, she watched as Father Brophy stood over Ursula’s bed, his lips moving in prayer, absolving the nun of her sins. And what of my sins, Father? she wondered, as she gazed at his striking profile. Would you be shocked to learn what I am thinking and feeling about you? Would you absolve me, and forgive me for my weaknesses?
    He anointed Ursula’s forehead, traced the sign of the cross with his hand. Then he looked up.
    It was time to let Ursula die.
    Father Brophy emerged, to stand beside Maura outside the window. Sutcliffe and a nurse now entered.
    What happened next was disturbingly matter-of-fact. The flip of a few switches, and that was all. The ventilator went silent, the bellows wheezing to a stop. The nurse turned her gaze to the heart monitor as the blips began to slow.
    Maura felt Father Brophy move close beside her, as though to reassure her that he was there, should she need comfort. It was not comfort he inspired, but confusion. Attraction. She kept her gaze focused on the drama playing out beyond the window, thinking: Always the wrong men. Why am I drawn to the men I cannot, or should not, have?
    On the monitor, the first stumbled heartbeat appeared, then another. Starved of oxygen, the heart struggled on, even as its cells were dying. A stuttering of beats now, deteriorating to the last twitches of ventricular fibrillation. Maura had to suppress the instinct to respond, ingrained by so many years of medical training. This arrhythmia would not be treated; this heart would not be rescued.
    The line, at last, went flat.
    Maura lingered by the cubicle, watching the aftermath of Ursula’s passing. They wasted no time on mourning or reflection. Dr. Sutcliffe pressed a stethoscope to Ursula’s chest, shook his head, and walked out of the cubicle. The nurse turned off the monitor and disconnected the cardiac leads and IVs, in preparation for the transfer. Already, the morgue retrieval team was on its way.
    Maura’s task here was done.
    She left Father Brophy standing by the cubicle, and returned to the nursing station.
    “There’s one more thing I forgot to mention,” she said to the ward clerk.
    “Yes?”
    “For our records, we’ll need contact information for the next of kin. The only number I saw in the chart was the convent’s. I understand she has a nephew. Do you have his phone number?”
    “Dr. Isles?”
    She turned and saw Father Brophy standing behind her, buttoning up his coat. He gave an apologetic smile.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to listen in, but I can help you with that. We keep all the family contact information for the sisters in our parish office. I’ll look up the number for you, and call you about it later.”
    “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” She picked up the photocopied chart and turned to leave.
    “Oh, and Dr. Isles?”
    She glanced back. “Yes?”
    “I know this may not be the most appropriate moment to say it, but I wanted to, anyway.” He smiled. “Have a merry Christmas.”
    “And a merry Christmas to you too, Father.”
    “You’ll come by for a visit someday? Just to say hello?”
    “I’ll certainly try,” she replied. Knowing, even as she said it, that it was a courteous lie. That to walk away from this man and never look back was the most sensible move she could make.
    And that’s what she did.
    Stepping out of the hospital, the blast of cold air shocked her. She hugged the chart close to her and headed into the wind’s icy teeth. On this holy night, she walked alone, her only