The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

about something else.”
    “But she kept looking at him. He’s hanging on her wall.”
    Maura thought of the crucifix, mounted across from him Camille’s bed. And she imagined the young novice, prostrated before that cross, praying for . . . what? Forgiveness for her sins? Deliverance from the consequences? But every month, the child would be growing inside her, and she would begin to feel it moving. Kicking. No amount of prayer or frantic scrubbing could wash away that guilt.
    “Am I done?” asked Noni.
    Rizzoli sank back in her chair with a sigh. “Yeah, kid. We’re all done. You can go join your mom.”
    The girl hopped off the chair, landing with a noisy clomp that made her curls bounce. “She was sad about the ducks, too.”
    “Man, that sounds good for dinner,” said Rizzoli. “Roast duck.”
    “She used to feed them, but then they all flew away for the winter. My mommy says some of them won’t come back, because they get eaten up down south.”
    “Yeah, well, that’s life.” Rizzoli waved her off. “Go on, your Mom’s waiting.”
    The girl was almost at the kitchen door when Maura called out: “Noni? Where were these ducks that was Camille feeding?”
    “The ones in the pond.”
    “Which pond?”
    “You know, in the back. Even when they flew away, she kept going out to look for them, but my mommy said she was wasting her time because they’re probably in Florida. That’s where Disney World is,” she added, and skipped out of the room.
    There was a long silence.
    Slowly Rizzoli turned and looked at Maura. “Did you just hear what I heard?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you thinking . . .”
    Maura nodded. “You have to search the duck pond.”
             
     
    It was nearly ten when Maura pulled into her driveway. The lights were on in her living room, giving the illusion that someone was at home, waiting for her, but she knew the house was empty. It was always an empty house that greeted her, the lights turned on not by human hands but by a trio of $5.99 automatic timers bought in the local Wal-Mart. During the short days of winter, she set them for five o’clock, ensuring that she would not come home to a dark house. She had chosen this suburb of Brookline, just west of Boston, because of the sense of security she felt in its quiet, tree-lined streets. Most of her neighbors were urban professionals who, like her, worked in the city and fled every evening to this suburban haven. Her neighbor on one side, Mr. Telushkin, was a robotics engineer from Israel. Her neighbors on the other side, Lily and Susan, were civil rights attorneys. In the summertime, everyone kept their gardens neat and their cars waxed—an updated version of the American dream, where lesbians and immigrant professionals happily waved to each other across clipped hedges. It was as safe a neighborhood as one could find this close to the city, but Maura knew how illusory notions of safety were. Roads into the suburbs can be traveled by both victims and predators. Her autopsy table was a democratic destination; it did not discriminate against suburban housewives.
    Though the lamps in her living room offered a welcoming glow, the house felt chilly. Or perhaps she had simply brought winter inside with her, like one of those cartoon characters over whom storm clouds always hang. She turned up the thermostat and lit the flame in the gas fireplace—a convenience that once struck her as appallingly fake, but which she had since come to appreciate. Fire was fire, whether it was lit with the flick of a switch, or by fussing over wood and kindling. Tonight, she craved its warmth, its cheery light, and was glad to be so quickly gratified.
    She poured a glass of sherry and settled into a chair beside the hearth. Through the window, she could see Christmas lights adorning the house across the street, like twinkling icicles drooping from the eaves—a nagging reminder of how out-of-touch she was with the holiday spirit. She had not yet bought a tree, or shopped for gifts, or even picked up a box of holiday cards. This was the second year in a row that she’d played Mrs. Grinch. Last winter, she had just moved to Boston, and in the midst of unpacking and settling into her job, she had scarcely noticed Christmas whizzing by. And what’s your excuse this year? she thought. She had only a week left to buy that tree and hang the lights and make eggnog. At the very least, she should play a few carols on her piano, as she used to do