The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

standing by the bed, staring down at the rumpled sheets.
    Rizzoli peeled back the covers, revealing bright red stains on the bottom sheet.
    “Menstrual blood,” said Maura, and saw Frost flush and turn away. Even married men were squeamish when it came to intimate details of women’s bodily functions.
    The clang of the bell drew Maura’s gaze back to the window. She watched as a nun emerged from the building to open the gate. Four visitors wearing yellow slickers entered the courtyard.
    “CSU’s arrived,” said Maura.
    “I’ll go down and meet them,” said Frost, and he left the room.
    Sleet was still falling, ticking against the glass, and a layer of rime distorted her view of the courtyard below. Maura caught a watery view of Frost stepping out to greet the crime-scene techs. Fresh invaders, violating the sanctity of the abbey. And beyond the wall, others were waiting to invade as well. She saw a TV news van creep past the gate, cameras no doubt rolling. How did they find their way here so quickly? Was the scent of death so powerful?
    She turned to look at Rizzoli. “You’re Catholic, Jane. Aren’t you?”
    Rizzoli snorted as she picked through Camille’s closet. “Me? Catechism dropout.”
    “When did you stop believing?”
    “About the same time I stopped believing in Santa Claus. Never did make it to my confirmation, which to this day still pisses off my dad. Jesus, what a boring closet.
Let’s see, shall I wear the black or the brown habit today?
Why would any girl in her right mind want to be a nun?”
    “Not all nuns wear habits. Not since Vatican II.”
    “Yeah, but that chastity thing, that hasn’t changed. Imagine no sex for the rest of your life.”
    “I don’t know,” said Maura. “It might be a relief to stop thinking about men.”
    “I’m not sure that’s possible.” She shut the closet door and slowly scanned the room, looking for . . . what? Maura wondered. The key to Camille’s personality? The explanation for why her life had ended so young, so brutally? But there were no clues here that Maura could see. This was a room swept clean of all traces of its occupant. That, perhaps, was the most telling clue of all to Camille’s personality. A young woman scrubbing, always scrubbing away at dirt. At sin.
    Rizzoli crossed to the bed and dropped down to her hands and knees to look underneath. “Geez, it’s so clean under here you can eat off the goddamn floor.”
    Wind shook the window and sleet clattered against the glass. Maura turned and watched Frost and the CSTs cross toward the chapel. One of the techs suddenly slid across the stones, arms flung out like a skater as he struggled to stay upright. We’re all struggling to stay upright, Maura thought. Resisting the pull of temptation, just as we fight the pull of gravity. And when we finally fall, it’s always such a surprise.
    The team stepped into the chapel, and she imagined them standing in a silent circle, staring down at Sister Ursula’s blood, their breaths marked by puffs of steam.
    Behind her there was a thud.
    She turned and was alarmed to see Rizzoli sitting on the floor next to the toppled chair. She had her head hanging between her knees.
    “Jane.” Maura knelt beside her. “Jane?”
    Rizzoli waved her away. “I’m okay. I’m okay. . . .”
    “What happened?”
    “I just . . . I think I got up too fast. I’m just a little dizzy. . . .” Rizzoli tried to straighten, then quickly dropped her head again.
    “You should lie down.”
    “I don’t need to lie down. Just give me a minute to clear my head.”
    Maura remembered that Rizzoli had not looked well in the chapel, her face too pale, her lips dusky. At the time she’d assumed it was because the detective was chilled. Now they were in a warm room, and Rizzoli looked just as drained.
    “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” Maura asked.
    “Uh . . .”
    “Don’t you remember?”
    “Yeah, I guess I ate. Sort of.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “A piece of toast, okay?” Rizzoli shook off Maura’s hand, an impatient rejection of any help. It was that fierce pride that sometimes made her so difficult to work with. “I think I’m coming down with the flu.”
    “You’re sure that’s all it is?”
    Rizzoli shoved her hair off her face and slowly sat up straight. “Yeah. And I shouldn’t have had all that coffee this morning.”
    “How much?”
    “Three—maybe four cups.”
    “Isn’t that overdoing it?”
    “I needed the