The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

struggle just to move forward. Her feet were numb, her legs clumsy from the cold. Against the bright reflection of moonlight on snow, she was an easy target, a stark black figure against a sea of pitiless white. Even as she stumbled forward, her legs mired, she wondered if he was, at that moment, taking aim.
    She sank into a thigh-deep drift and fell, tasting snow. Rose to her knees and began to crawl, refusing to surrender. To accept death. On senseless legs she tunneled forward, hearing footsteps crunch toward her. He was moving in for the kill.
    Light suddenly cut through the darkness.
    She looked up and saw the glitter of approaching headlights. A car.
    My only chance.
    With a sob, she sprang to her feet and began to run toward the street. Waving her arms, screaming.
    The car skidded to a stop just in front of her. The driver stepped out, a tall and imposing silhouette, moving toward her across the spectral whiteness.
    She stared. Slowly began to back away.
    It was Father Brophy.
    “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Everything’s all right.”
    She turned and looked toward her house, but saw no one.
Where is he? Where did he go?
    Now more lights were approaching. Two more cars pulled to a stop. She saw the pulsing blue of a police cruiser, and raised her hand against the glare of headlights, trying to make out the silhouettes walking toward her.
    She heard Rizzoli call out: “Doc? Are you okay?”
    “I’ll take care of her,” said Father Brophy.
    “Where’s Sutcliffe?”
    “I didn’t see him.”
    “The house,” said Maura. “He was in my house.”
    “Get her in your car, Father,” said Rizzoli. “Just stay with her.”
    Maura still hadn’t moved. She stood frozen in place as Father Brophy stepped toward her. He pulled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Wrapped his arm around her and helped her toward the passenger seat of his car.
    “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why are you here?”
    “Shhh. Let’s just get you out of this wind.”
    He slid in beside her. As the heater blasted at her knees, her face, she hugged his coat tighter, trying to get warm, her teeth chattering so hard she could not talk.
    Through the windshield, she saw dark figures moving on the street. She recognized Barry Frost’s silhouette as he approached her front door. Saw Rizzoli and a patrolman edging toward the side gate, their weapons drawn.
    She turned to look at Father Brophy. Though she could not read his expression, she felt the intensity of his gaze, as surely as she felt the warmth of his coat. “How did you know?” she whispered.
    “When I couldn’t get through, on your phone, I called Detective Rizzoli.” He took her hand. Held it in both of his, a touch that brought tears to her eyes. Suddenly she couldn’t look at him; she stared straight ahead, at the street, and saw it through a blur of colors as he pressed her hand to his lips in a warm and lingering kiss.
    She blinked away tears, and the street came into focus. What she saw alarmed her. Running figures. Rizzoli, silhouetted by flashing blue lights as she darted across the road. Frost, weapon drawn, dropping to a crouch behind the cruiser.
    Why are they all moving toward us? What do they know that we don’t?
    “Lock the doors,” she said.
    Brophy looked at her, bewildered. “What?”
    “Lock the doors!”
    Rizzoli was yelling at them from the street, shouts of warning.
    He’s here. He’s crouched behind our car!
    Maura twisted sideways, hand scrabbling across the door in search of the button, frantic because she could not find it in the darkness.
    Matthew Sutcliffe’s shadow reared outside her window. She flinched as the door swung open and cold air rushed in.
    “Get out of the car, Father,” said Sutcliffe.
    The priest went very still. He said quietly, calmly: “The keys are in the ignition. Take the car, Dr. Sutcliffe. Maura and I are both getting out.”
    “No, just you.”
    “I won’t step out unless she does, too.”
    “Get the fuck out, Father!”
    Her hair was wrenched sideways, and the gun bit into her temple. “Please,” she whispered to Brophy. “Just do it. Do it now.”
    “Okay!” Brophy said in panic. “I’m doing it! I’m getting out. . . .” He pushed open his door and stepped outside.
    Sutcliffe said to Maura, “Get behind the wheel.”
    Shaking, clumsy, Maura climbed over the gear shift, into the driver’s seat. She glanced sideways, out the window, and saw Brophy still standing