The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

quiet acceptance that this process could not be rushed. She was not accepting of many things in her life. She expended too much energy trying to be faster, better, more efficient. It felt good, for once, to surrender to the unyielding demands of making gnocchi.
    She sprinkled in more flour and kneaded the dough, focusing on its silky texture as it slid between her fingers. In the next room, where the men were gathered, the TV was tuned to ESPN with the volume at full blast. But in here, buffered by the closed kitchen door from the roar of stadium crowds and the chatter of the sportscaster, she worked in serenity, her hands working the now-elastic dough. The only break in her concentration came when one of Irene’s twin sons toddled through the swinging door into the kitchen, banged his head on the table, and started screaming.
    Irene ran in and scooped him up. “Angela, are you
sure
I can’t help you two with the cooking?” Irene asked, sounding a little desperate to escape the noisy living room.
    Angela, who was deep-frying cannoli shells, said: “Don’t you even think about it! You just go take care of your boys.”
    “Michael can keep an eye on them. He’s not doing anything else in there but watching TV.”
    “No, you go sit down in the living room and take it easy. Janie and I have everything under control.”
    “If you’re really sure . . .”
    “I’m sure, I’m sure.”
    Irene gave a sigh and walked out, the toddler squirming in her arms.
    Rizzoli began to roll out the gnocchi dough. “You know, Mom, she really does want to help us out in here.”
    Angela scooped crisp and golden cannoli shells from the oil and set them on paper towels to drain. “It’s better if she watches her kids. I’ve got a system going. She wouldn’t know what to do in this kitchen.”
    “Yeah. Like I do?”
    Angela turned and looked at her, her slotted spoon dripping oil. “Of course you know.”
    “Only what you taught me.”
    “And that’s not enough? I should’ve done a better job?”
    “You know that’s not how I meant it.”
    Angela watched with a critical eye as her daughter cut the dough into one-inch pieces. “You think Irene’s mother taught her how to make gnocchi like that?”
    “I doubt it, Mom. Since she’s Irish.”
    Angela snorted. “There’s another reason not to let her in the kitchen.”
    “Hey, Ma!” said Frankie, banging through the door. “You got any more nibbles or anything?”
    Rizzoli looked up to see her older brother swagger in. He looked every bit the Marine he was, his over-pumped shoulders as wide as the refrigerator he was now peering into. “You can’t have finished that whole tray already.”
    “Naw, those little brats got their grubby hands all over the food. I ain’t eating it now.”
    “There’s more cheese and salami on the bottom shelf,” said Angela. “And some nice roast peppers, in that bowl over on the counter. Make up a new tray, why don’t you?”
    Frankie grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and popped the top. “Can’t you do it, Ma? I don’t wanna miss the last quarter.”
    “Janie, you fix them up a tray, okay?”
    “Why me? It’s not like he’s doing anything useful,” Rizzoli pointed out.
    But Frankie had already left the kitchen and was probably back in front of the TV, chugging his beer.
    She went to the sink to rinse the flour from her hands, the serenity she’d felt only moments earlier now gone, replaced with a familiar sense of irritation. She cut cubes of creamy fresh mozzarella and paper-thin slices of salami and arranged them on a platter. Added a mound of roast peppers and a scoop of olives. Any more than that, and the men would ruin their appetites.
    God, I’m thinking like mom now. Why the hell should I care if they ruin their appetites?
    She carried the platter into the living room, where her dad and her two brothers sat like slack-jawed lunks on the couch, glassy eyes staring at the TV. Irene was kneeling on the floor by the Christmas tree, picking up cracker crumbs.
    “I’m so sorry,” Irene said. “Dougie dropped it on the carpet before I could catch it—”
    “Hey, Janie,” Frankie said. “Can you move outta the way? I can’t see the game.”
    She set the platter of antipasti on the coffee table and picked up the tray which was now contaminated with toddler germs. “You know,” she said, “Someone
could
help Irene watch those boys.”
    Michael finally looked up, eyes glazed over. “Huh? Oh, yeah . .