The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

.”
    “Janie,
move,
” said Frankie.
    “Not till you say thank you.”
    “For what?”
    She snatched up the plate of snacks, which she’d just set down. “Since you didn’t even notice . . .”
    “Okay, okay. Goddamn it.
Thank
you.”
    “You’re
welcome
.” She set the plate down again, hard, and headed back to the kitchen. In the doorway she paused and looked back at the scene in the living room. The Christmas tree, twinkling with lights, had a mountain of gifts piled up beneath it, like offerings to the great god of excess. The three men planted in front of the TV were stuffing their mouths with salami. The twins were spinning around the room like two tops. And poor Irene painstakingly searched for every stray cracker crumb as strands of her beautiful red hair came loose from her ponytail.
    Not for me, thought Rizzoli. I’d rather die than let myself be trapped in this nightmare.
    She fled into the kitchen and set down the tray. She stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths, shaking off a terrible sense of claustrophobia. Aware, at the same time, of the fullness pressing down on her bladder. I can’t let it happen to me, she thought. I can’t turn into Irene, worn out and dragged down by grubby little hands.
    “What’s the matter?” said Angela.
    “Nothing, Mom.”
    “What? I can tell something’s wrong.”
    She sighed. “Frankie really pisses me off, you know that?”
    “You can’t think of a nicer word?”
    “No, that’s exactly the word for what he does to me. Don’t you ever see it, what a jerk he is?”
    Angela silently scooped out the last of the cannoli shells and set them aside to drain.
    “Did you know he used to chase me and Mikey around the house with the vacuum cleaner? Loved scaring the shit outta Mike, telling him he was gonna suck him into the hose. Mike used to scream his head off. But you never heard it, because Frankie always did it when you were out of the house. You never knew how nasty he was to us.”
    Angela sat down at the kitchen table and gazed at the little nuggets of gnocchi dough that her daughter had cut. “I knew,” she said.
    “What?”
    “I knew he could have been nicer to you. He could have been a better brother.”
    “And you let him get away with everything. That’s what bothered us, Mom. It still bothers Mike, that Frankie was always your favorite.”
    “You don’t understand about Frankie.”
    Rizzoli laughed. “I understand him just fine.”
    “Sit down, Janie. Come on. Let’s do the gnocchi together. It goes faster that way.”
    Rizzoli gave a sigh and sank into the chair across from Angela. Silently, resentfully, she began dusting the gnocchi with flour, squeezing each piece to make an indentation with her finger. What more personal mark can a chef leave but her own angry fingerprint, pressed into each morsel?
    “You have to make allowances for Frankie,” said Angela.
    “Why? He doesn’t make any for me.”
    “You don’t know what he’s been through.”
    “I’ve heard more than I ever want to hear about the Marines.”
    “No, I’m talking about when he was a baby. What happened when he was a baby.”
    “Something happened?”
    “It still gives me the chills, how his head hit the floor.”
    “What, did he fall out of the crib?” She laughed. “It might explain his I.Q.”
    “No, it’s not funny. It was serious—very serious. Your dad was out of town, and I had to rush Frankie to the emergency room. They did X rays, and he had a crack, right there.” Angela touched the side of her head, leaving a smear of flour in her dark hair. “In his skull.”
    “I always said he had a hole in his head.”
    “I’m telling you, it’s not funny, Jane. He almost died.”
    “He’s too mean to die.”
    Angela stared down at the bowl of flour. “He was only four months old,” she said.
    Rizzoli paused, her finger pressing into soft dough. She could not imagine Frankie as an infant. She could not imagine him helpless or vulnerable.
    “The doctors had to drain some blood from his brain. They said there was a chance . . .” Angela stopped.
    “What?”
    “That he might not grow up normal.”
    A sarcastic remark automatically popped into Rizzoli’s head, but she held it back. This, she understood, was not an occasion for sarcasm.
    Angela was not looking at her, but was now staring down at her own hand, clutching a lump of dough. Avoiding her daughter’s gaze.
    Four months old, Rizzoli thought. There’s something wrong