The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

here. If he was only four months old, he couldn’t crawl yet. He couldn’t climb out of his crib, or squirm out of his high chair. The only way for an infant that young to fall is to be dropped.
    She looked at her mother with new comprehension. She wondered how many nights Angela had awakened in horror, remembering the instant when she’d lost her grip, and her baby had slid from her arms. Golden boy Frankie, almost killed by his careless mother.
    She reached out and touched her mother’s arm. “Hey. He turned out okay, didn’t he?”
    Angela took a breath. She began dusting and pinching more gnocchis, suddenly working at record speed.
    “Mom, of all of us, Frankie’s the toughest one in the bunch.”
    “No, he isn’t.” Angela set a gnocchi on the tray and looked up at her daughter. “You are.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “You are, Jane. When you were born, I took one look at you, and I thought: This one I never have to worry about. This one’s gonna fight back, no matter what. Mikey, I know I probably should have protected better. He’s not so good at defending himself.”
    “Mike grew up a victim. He’s always gonna act like one.”
    “But not you.” A faint smile tugged at Angela’s lips as she gazed at her daughter. “When you were three, I saw you fall and hit your face on the coffee table. You cut yourself right there, under the chin.”
    “Yeah, I still got the scar.”
    “The cut was so bad you had to get stitches. You were bleeding all over the carpet. And you know what you did? Guess what you did.”
    “I screamed a lot, I imagine.”
    “No. You started hitting the coffee table. Punching it, like that!” Angela whacked the table with her fist, sending up a puff of flour. “Like you were furious at it. You didn’t come running to me. You didn’t cry about all the blood. You were too busy fighting back at the thing that hurt you.” Angela laughed and wiped her hand across her eyes, leaving a streak of white on her cheek. “You were the strangest little girl. Of all my kids, you made me the proudest.”
    Rizzoli stared at her mother. “I never knew that. I had no idea.”
    “Ha! Kids! You have no idea what you put your parents through, either. Wait till you have your own, you’ll see. That’s when you’ll know what it really feels like.”
    “What what feels like?”
    “Love,” said Angela.
    Rizzoli looked down at her mother’s worn hands, and suddenly her eyes burned and her throat ached. She rose and went to the sink. Filled a pot of water in which to cook the gnocchi. She waited for the water to heat, thinking: Maybe I don’t really know what love feels like. Because I’ve been too busy fighting it. Just as I fight everything else that might hurt me.
    She left the pot on the stove, and walked out of the kitchen.
    Upstairs, in her parents’ bedroom, she picked up the telephone. Sat on the bed for a moment, holding the receiver, trying to gather up enough nerve to make the call.
    Do it. You have to do it.
    She began to dial.
    The phone rang four times, and then she heard the recording, brief and matter-of-fact: “This is Gabriel. I’m not home right now. Please leave a message.”
    She waited for the beep and took a deep breath.
    “This is Jane,” she said. “I have something to tell you, and I guess it’s better this way, over the phone. It’s better than talking to you in person, because I don’t think I really want to see your reaction. So anyway, here goes. I . . . screwed up.” She suddenly laughed. “Jesus, I feel really stupid, making the world’s oldest mistake. I’ll never joke about dumb bimbos again. What happened is, well . . . I’m pregnant. About eight weeks, I think. Which, in case you’re wondering, means it’s definitely yours. I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do whatever it is men are supposed to do. You don’t even have to return this call. But I did think you had a right to know, because . . .” She paused, her voice suddenly thick with tears. She cleared her throat. “Because I’ve decided to keep the baby.”
    She hung up.
    For a long time she didn’t move, but just stared down at her hands as she rode a twister of emotions. Relief. Fear. Anticipation. But not ambivalence—this was a choice she felt absolutely right about.
    She rose, feeling suddenly weightless, released from the burden of uncertainty. There was so much to worry about, so many changes to prepare for, yet she felt a new