The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Rizzoli and Maura waited.
    “What are you afraid of, Mrs. Otis?” Maura asked quietly.
    The question seemed to antagonize Grace. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
    “Then why don’t you want us to speak to your daughter?”
    “Because she’s not reliable.”
    “Yes, we understand that she’s only seven—”
    “She lies.” The words shot out like the snap of a whip. Grace’s face, already unattractive, took on an even uglier cast. “She lies about everything. Even silly things. You can’t believe what she says—any of it.”
    Maura glanced at the Abbess, who gave a bewildered shake of her head.
    “The girl has usually been quiet and unobtrusive,” said Mary Clement. “That’s why we’ve allowed Grace to bring her into the abbey while she works.”
    “I can’t afford a baby sitter,” cut in Grace. “I can’t afford anything, really. It’s the only way I can manage to work at all, if I keep her here after school.”
    “And she just waits here for you?” asked Maura. “Until you’re done for the day?”
    “What am I supposed to do with her? I have to work, you know. It’s not as if they let my husband stay there for free. These days, you can’t even die unless you have money.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “My husband. He’s a patient in St. Catherine’s Hospice. Lord knows how long he’ll have to be there.” Grace shot a glance at the Abbess, sharp as a poison dart. “I work here, as part of the arrangement.” Clearly not a happy arrangement, Maura thought. Grace could not be much older than her mid-thirties, but it must seem to her that her life was already over. She was trapped by obligations, to a daughter for whom she clearly had little affection; to a husband who took too long to die. For Grace Otis, Graystones Abbey was no sanctuary; it was her prison.
    “Why is your husband in St. Catherine’s?” Maura asked gently.
    “I told you. He’s dying.”
    “Of what?”
    “Lou Gehrig’s disease. ALS.” Grace said it without emotion, but Maura knew the terrible reality behind that name. As a medical student, she had examined a patient with amyotrophic lateralizing sclerosis. Though completely awake and aware and able to feel pain, he could not move because his muscles had wasted away, reducing him to little more than a brain trapped in a useless body. As she had examined his heart and lungs and palpated his abdomen, she had felt his gaze on her, and had not wanted to meet it, because she knew the despair she would see in his eyes. When she’d finally walked out of his hospital room, she had felt both relief as well as a twinge of guilt—but only a twinge. His tragedy was not hers. She was just a student, passing briefly through his life, under no obligation to share the burden of his misfortune. She was free to walk away, and she had.
    Grace Otis could not. The result was etched in resentful lines in her face, and in the prematurely gray streaks in her hair. She said, “At least I’ve warned you. She’s not reliable. She tells stories. Sometimes they’re ridiculous stories.”
    “We understand,” said Maura. “Children do that.”
    “If you want to talk to her, I need to be in the room. Just to make sure she behaves.”
    “Of course. It’s your right, as a parent.”
    At last, Grace rose to her feet. “Noni’s hiding out in the kitchen. I’ll get her.”
    It was several minutes before Grace reappeared, tugging a dark-haired girl by the hand. It was clear that Noni did not want to come out, and she resisted it all the way, every fiber of her little body straining against Grace’s relentless pull. Finally, Grace just picked up the girl under the arms and plopped her into a chair—not gently, either, but with the tired disgust of a woman who has reached the end of her rope. The girl sat still for a moment, looking stunned to find herself so swiftly conquered. She was a curly-haired sprite with a square jaw and lively dark eyes that quickly took in everyone in the room. She spared only a glance at Mary Clement, then her gaze lingered a little longer on Maura before it finally settled on Rizzoli. There it stayed, as though Rizzoli was the only one worth focusing on. Like a dog who chooses to annoy the only asthmatic in the room, Noni had settled her attentions on the one person who was least fond of children.
    Grace gave her daughter a nudge. “You have to talk to them.”
    Noni’s face scrunched up in protest. Out came two words, hoarse as a frog’s croak.