The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

morning,” she said.
    Was that disappointment she saw in his eyes? she wondered. And couldn’t help feeling a small dart of happiness at that possibility.
    Lying in bed, she couldn’t sleep, knowing that he was under the same roof. Her roof, her territory. In San Francisco, they had lived in the house he’d owned before they married, and she had never really thought of it as hers. Tonight, the circumstances were reversed, and she was the one in control. What happened next was her choice.
    The possibilities tormented her.
    Only when she startled awake did she realize she had actually slept. Daylight already glowed in the window. She lay in bed for a moment, wondering what had awakened her. Wondering what she would say to him. Then she heard the garage door rumble open, and the growl of a car engine backing out her driveway.
    She climbed out of bed and looked out the window, just in time to see Victor’s car drive away and vanish around the corner.

E IGHT
     
    J ANE R IZZOLI AWAKENED in the early dawn. The street outside her apartment building was still quiet; the morning commute had not yet started in earnest. She stared up at the gloom, thinking: Come on, you gotta do it. You can’t keep your goddamn head stuck in the sand.
    She switched on the lamp and sat on the side of the bed, stomach cramping with nausea. Though the room was chilly, she was sweating, and her T-shirt clung to her damp underarms.
    It was time to face the music.
    She walked barefoot into the bathroom. The package lay on the counter, where she had left it the night before, to ensure that she wouldn’t forget to use it this morning. As if she needed any reminder. She opened the box, tore open the foil packet, and removed the test stick. Last night she had read the instructions several times, had practically committed them to memory. Nevertheless, she paused now to read them again. Stalling just a little longer.
    At last she sat down on the toilet. Holding the test stick between her thighs, she peed on the tip, soaking it in the stream of early morning urine.
    Wait two minutes, the instructions said.
    She set the test stick on the countertop, and went into the kitchen. Poured herself a glass of orange juice. The same hand that could grip a weapon and squeeze off shot after shot, hitting every target, was now shaking as she lifted the glass of juice to her lips. She stared at the kitchen clock, watching the second hand make its jerky revolution. Feeling her pulse quicken as the two minutes counted down to zero. She had never been a coward, had never shrunk from facing down the enemy, but this was a different sort of fear, private and gnawing. The fear that she would make the wrong decision, and would spend the rest of her life suffering for it.
    Goddamn it, Jane. Get on with it.
    Suddenly angry at herself, disgusted by her own cowardice, she set down the juice and walked back to the bathroom. Did not even pause in the doorway to steel herself, but crossed straight to the counter and picked up the test stick.
    She did not need to read the instructions to know what that purple line across the test window meant.
    She didn’t remember returning to the bedroom. She found herself sitting on the bed, the test stick on her lap. She’d never liked the color purple; it was too girly and flamboyant. Now the very sight of it made her sick. She thought she’d been fully prepared for the result, but she was not ready at all. Her legs went numb from sitting too long in the same position, yet she couldn’t seem to stir. Even her brain had shut down, every thought mired by shock and indecision. She could not think of what to do next. The first impulse that came to mind was childish and utterly irrational.
    I want my Mom.
    She was thirty-four years old and independent. She had kicked down doors and tracked down murderers. She had killed a man. And here she was, suddenly hungry for her mother’s arms.
    The phone rang.
    She looked at it in bewilderment, as though not recognizing what it was. On the fourth ring, she finally picked it up.
    “Hey, you still at home?” said Frost. “The team’s all here.”
    She struggled to focus on his words. The team. The pond. Turning to look at her bedside clock, she was startled to see it was already eight-fifteen.
    “Rizzoli? They’re ready to start dragging. You want us to go ahead?”
    “Yeah. I’ll be right there.” She hung up. The sound of the receiver thudding in the cradle was like the snap of a