The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

to be the one who was always too busy for the holidays.”
    He looked up at her from the tangle of silver. “And you’re always going to hold that against me, aren’t you?”
    She fell silent, regretting her last comment. It was not a good way to start the evening, by bringing up old resentments. She turned to hang her coat in the closet. With her back to him, she called out: “Can I get you a drink?”
    “Whatever you’re having.”
    “Even if it’s a girly drink?”
    “Have I ever been sexist about my cocktails?”
    She laughed and went into the kitchen. From the refrigerator she took out limes and cranberry juice. She measured Triple Sec and Absolut Citron into the cocktail shaker. Standing at the sink, she rattled together ice and liquor, feeling the metal container turn frosty. Shake, shake, shake, like the sound of dice in a cup. Everything’s a gamble, love most of all. The last time I gambled I lost, she thought. And this time, what am I gambling for? A chance to make things right between us? Or another chance to have my heart broken?
    She poured the icy liquid into two martini glasses and was carrying them out when she noticed the trash can was filled with a jumble of restaurant takeout containers. She had to smile. So Victor had not magically transformed into a chef after all. Their dinner tonight was courtesy of the New Market Deli.
    When she walked into the living room, she found Victor had given up on tinsel-hanging and was packing away the empty ornament boxes.
    “You went to a lot of trouble,” she said, as she set the martini glasses down on the coffee table. “Bulbs and lights and everything.”
    “I couldn’t find any Christmas stuff in your garage.”
    “I left it all in San Francisco.”
    “You never bought your own?”
    “I haven’t put up any trees.”
    “It’s been three years, Maura.”
    She sat down on the couch and calmly took a sip of her drink. “And when was the last time
you
took out that box of bulbs?”
    He said nothing, but focused instead on stacking the empty boxes. When he finally answered, he did not look at her. “I haven’t felt much like celebrating, either.”
    The TV was still on, the sound now muted, but distracting images flashed on the screen. Victor reached for the remote and pressed OFF . Then he sat on the couch, a comfortable distance away, not touching her, yet close enough to leave open all possibilities.
    He looked at the martini glass she’d brought him. “It’s pink,” he said, with a note of surprise.
    “A Cosmopolitan. I warned you it was a girly drink.”
    He took a sip. “Tastes like the girls are having all the fun.”
    They sat quietly for a moment, sipping their drinks, the Christmas lights twinkling on and off. A homey and comfortable scene, but Maura was feeling anything but relaxed. She didn’t know what to expect of this evening, and didn’t know what
he
expected either. Everything about him was disconcertingly familiar. His scent, the way his hair caught the lamplight. And the little details, which she always found endearing because they reflected his lack of pretension: the well-worn shirt, the faded jeans. The same old Timex that he’d been wearing ever since she’d met him. I can’t walk into a third world country and say I’m here to help you when there’s a Rolex on my wrist, he’d said. Victor as Man of La Mancha, tilting at the windmill of poverty. She may have grown weary of that fight long ago, but he was still in the thick of it.
    And for that, she couldn’t help but admire him.
    He put down the martini glass. “I saw more about the nuns today. On the news.”
    “What are they saying?”
    “The police were dragging a pond behind the convent. What’s that all about?”
    She leaned back, the alcohol starting to melt the tension from her shoulders. “They found a baby in the pond.”
    “The nun’s?”
    “We’re waiting for the DNA to confirm it.”
    “But you have no doubt it’s her baby?”
    “It has to be. Or this case gets unbelievably complicated.”
    “So you’ll be able to identify the father. If you have DNA.”
    “We need a name, first. And even if we do establish paternity, there’s always the question of whether the sex was consensual, or whether it was rape. How do you prove it, one way or another, without Camille’s testimony?”
    “Still, it sounds like a possible motive for murder.”
    “Absolutely.” She drained the last of her drink and set down the glass. It had been a