The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

caffeine. But now it’s eating a hole in my stomach. I feel like puking.”
    “I’ll walk you to the bathroom.”
    “No.” Rizzoli waved her away. “I can make it, okay?” Slowly she rose to her feet and just stood for a moment, as though not quite confident of her footing. Then she squared her shoulders, and with a hint of the old Rizzoli swagger, walked out of the room.
    The clang of the gate bell drew Maura’s gaze back to the window. She watched as the elderly nun once again emerged from the building and shuffled across the cobblestones to answer the call. This new visitor did not need to plead his case; the nun at once opened the gate. A man dressed in a long black coat stepped into the courtyard and laid his hand on the nun’s shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort and familiarity. Together they walked toward the building, the man moving slowly to match her arthritic gait, his head bent toward her as though he did not want to miss hearing a single word she said.
    Halfway across the courtyard, he suddenly stopped and looked up, as though he sensed that Maura was watching him.
    For an instant, their gazes met through the window. She saw a lean and striking face, a head of black hair, ruffled by the wind. And she caught a glimpse of white, tucked beneath the raised collar of his black coat.
    A priest.
    When Mrs. Otis had announced that Father Brophy was on his way to the abbey, Maura had imagined him to be an elderly, gray-haired man. But the man gazing up at her now was young—no older than forty.
    He and the nun continued toward the building, and Maura lost sight of them. The courtyard was once again deserted, but the trampled snow bore a record of all who had walked across it that morning. The morgue transport team would soon arrive with their stretcher and add yet more footprints to the snow.
    She took a deep breath, dreading the return to the cold chapel, to the grim task that still lay before her. She left the room and went down to await her team.

T HREE
     
    J ANE R IZZOLI STOOD at the bathroom sink, staring at herself in the mirror, and not liking what she saw. She could not help comparing herself to the elegant Dr. Isles, who always seemed regally serene and in control, every black hair in place, her lipstick a glossy slash of red on flawless skin. The image Rizzoli saw in the mirror was neither serene nor flawless. Her hair was as wild as a banshee’s, the black coils overwhelming a face that was pale and strained. I’m not myself, she thought. I don’t recognize this woman looking back at me. When did I turn into this stranger?
    Another wave of nausea suddenly washed through her and she closed her eyes, fighting it, resisting it as fiercely as though her life depended on it. Sheer willpower couldn’t hold back the inevitable. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she made a dash for the nearest toilet stall, getting there just in time. Even after her stomach had emptied itself, she lingered there with her head hung over the bowl, not yet daring to leave the security of the stall. Thinking:
It’s got to be the flu. Please, let it be the flu.
    When at last her nausea had passed, she felt so drained she sat down on the toilet and slumped sideways against the wall. She thought about the work that lay before her. All the interviews still to be done, the frustrations of trying to tease out any useful information from this community of stunned and silent women. And the standing around, worst of all, the exhaustion of just standing around while CSU performed its microscopic treasure hunt. Usually she was the one eagerly sifting for evidence, always more evidence, the one who fought for control of every crime scene. Now here she was, holed up in a toilet stall, reluctant to step back into the thick of it, where she always strove to be. Wishing she could hide out here, where it was blessedly silent, and where no one could glimpse the turmoil written on her face. She wondered how much Dr. Isles had already noticed; perhaps nothing. Isles had always seemed more interested in the dead than the living, and when confronting a homicide scene, it was the corpse who commanded her attention.
    At last, Rizzoli straightened and stepped out of the stall. Her head felt clear now, her stomach settled. The ghost of the old Rizzoli, creeping back into its skin. At the sink, she scooped icy water into her mouth to rinse out the sour taste, then splashed more water on her face. Buck up, girl. Don’t be a wimp. Let the guys