The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

We’ve been searching since noon. But it takes time, combing through every closet, every drawer. Then there’s the field and the gardens out back—who knows what’s underneath the snow? She could have wrapped it up and just thrown it in the trash a few days ago. Could have handed it to someone outside the gate. We could spend days looking for something that may or may not be here.”
    “What does the Abbess say about it?”
    “I haven’t told her what we’re looking for.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t want her to know.”
    “She might be able to help.”
    “Or she might take steps to make sure we
don’t
find it. You think this archdiocese needs any more scandals? You think she wants the world to know that someone in this order killed her own baby?”
    “We don’t know that the child’s dead. We just know it’s missing.”
    “And you’re absolutely sure of your autopsy findings?”
    “Yes. Camille was in the advanced stages of pregnancy. And no, I don’t believe in immaculate conception.” She sat down on the bed beside Rizzoli. “The father may be key to the attack. We have to identify him.”
    “Yeah, I was just thinking about that word. Father. As in priest.”
    “Father Brophy?”
    “Good-looking man. Have you seen him?”
    Maura remembered the brilliant blue eyes that had gazed at her across the fallen cameraman. Remembered how he had strode through the abbey gate like a black-robed warrior, to challenge that wolf pack of reporters.
    “He had repeated access,” said Rizzoli. “He said Mass. He heard confession. Is there anything more intimate than sharing your secrets in a confession booth?”
    “You’re implying the sex was consensual.”
    “I’m just saying, he’s a good-looking guy.”
    “We don’t know that the baby was conceived in this abbey. Didn’t Camille visit her family, back in March?”
    “Yeah. When her grandmother died.”
    “It’s the right time frame. If she conceived in March, she’d be in her ninth month of pregnancy now. It could have happened during that visit home.”
    “And it could have happened right here. Inside these walls.” Rizzoli gave a cynical snort. “So much for that vow of chastity.”
    They sat without talking for a moment, both of them gazing at the crucifix on the wall. How flawed we humans are, thought Maura. If there is a god, why does he hold us to such unattainable standards? Why does he demand goals we can never reach?
    Maura said, “I wanted to be a nun, once.”
    “I thought you didn’t believe.”
    “I was only nine years old. I’d just found out I was adopted. My cousin let the cat out of the bag, one of those nasty revelations that suddenly explained everything. Why I didn’t look like my parents. Why I didn’t have any baby pictures. I spent the whole weekend crying in my room.” She shook her head. “My poor parents. They didn’t know what to do, so they took me to the movies to cheer me up. We saw the
Sound of Music
, only seventy-five cents, because it was an old movie.” She paused. “I thought Julie Andrews was beautiful. I wanted to be just like Maria. In the convent.”
    “Hey, Doc. You want to hear a secret?”
    “What?”
    “So did I.”
    Maura looked at her. “You’re kidding.”
    “I may have been a catechism dropout. But who can resist the pull of Julie Andrews?”
    At that, they both laughed, but it was uneasy laughter that quickly stuttered into silence.
    “So what made you change your mind?” Rizzoli asked. “About being a nun?”
    Maura rose to her feet and wandered over to the window. Looking down at the dark courtyard, she said: “I just grew out of it. I stopped believing in things I couldn’t see or smell or touch. Things that couldn’t be scientifically proved.” She paused. “And I discovered boys.”
    “Oh, yeah. Boys.” Rizzoli laughed. “There’s always that.”
    “It’s the real purpose of life, you know. From a biological point of view.”
    “Sex?”
    “Procreation. It’s what our genes demand. That we go forth and multiply. We think we’re the ones in control of our lives, and all the time, we’re just slaves of our DNA, telling us to have babies.”
    Maura turned and was startled to see tears shimmering on Rizzoli’s lashes; just as quickly they were gone, dashed away by a quick swipe of her hand.
    “Jane?”
    “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping very well.”
    “There’s nothing else going on?”
    “What else would there be?” The answer