The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

sitting all alone in an old classroom at the end of the hall, her sturdy legs swinging from the chair, a rainbow of crayons splayed out on the battered teacher’s desk in front of her. It was warmer in the abbey kitchen, where Mrs. Otis was now preparing dinner for the sisters, and the aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies wafted even to this gloomy end of the wing, yet Noni had chosen to hole up in this cold room, away from her mother’s sharp tongue and disapproving looks. The girl did not even seem to notice the chill. She was clutching a lime-green crayon in a childish grip, her tongue sticking out in fierce concentration as she drew sparks shooting from a man’s head.
    “It’s about to explode,” said Noni. “The death rays are cooking his brain. That makes him blow up. Like when you cook things in the microwave, and they blow up, just like that.”
    “The death rays are green?” asked Rizzoli.
    Noni looked up. “Are they supposed to be a different color?”
    “I don’t know. I always thought death rays would be, oh, silver.”
    “I don’t have any silver. Conrad took mine at school and he never gave it back.”
    “I guess green death rays will work, too.”
    Reassured, Noni went back to her drawing. She picked up a blue crayon and added spikes to the rays, so they looked like arrows raining down on the unfortunate victim. There were many unfortunate victims on the desk. The array of drawings showed spaceships shooting fire and blue aliens chopping off heads. These were not friendly E.Ts. The girl who sat drawing them struck Rizzoli as an alien creature herself, a little gremlin with gypsy brown eyes, hiding in a room where no one would disturb her.
    She had chosen a depressing retreat. The classroom looked long unused, its stark walls marred by the scars of countless thumbtacks and yellowed Scotch tape. Ancient student desks were stacked up in a far corner, leaving bare the scuffed wood floor. The only light came from the windows, and it cast everything in wintry shades of gray.
    Noni had begun the next drawing in her series of alien atrocities. The victim of the lime-green death rays now had a gaping hole in his head, and purplish blobs were shooting out. A cartoon bubble appeared above him with his dying exclamation.
    AHHHHHH!
    “Noni, do you remember the night we talked to you?”
    The brown curls bobbed up and down in a nod. “You haven’t come back to see me.”
    “Yeah, well, I’ve been running around quite a bit.”
    “You should stop running around. You should learn to sit down and relax.”
    There were echoes of an adult voice in that statement.
Stop running around, Noni!
    “And you shouldn’t be so sad,” Noni added picking up a new crayon.
    Rizzoli watched in silence as the girl drew gouts of bright red shooting from the exploding head. Jesus, she thought. This girl sees it. This fearless little gremlin sees more than anyone else does.
    “You have very sharp eyes,” said Rizzoli. “You see a lot of things, huh?”
    “I saw a potato blow up once. In the microwave.”
    “You told us some things last time, about Sister Ursula. You said she scolded you.”
    “She did.”
    “She said you were rude, because you asked about a woman’s hands. Remember?”
    Noni looked up, one dark eye peeking out from beneath the tumble of curls. “I thought you only want to know about Sister Camille.”
    “I want to know about Ursula, too. And about the woman who had something wrong with her hands. What did you mean by that?”
    “She didn’t have any fingers.” Noni picked up a black crayon and drew a bird above the exploding man. A bird of prey, with huge black wings. “Vultures,” she said. “They eat you when you’re dead.”
    Here I am, thought Rizzoli, relying on the word of a girl who draws space aliens and death rays.
    She leaned forward. Asked, quietly: “Where did you see this woman, Noni?”
    Noni put down her crayon and gave a weary sigh. “Okay. Since you
have
to know.” She jumped off the chair.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To show you. Where the lady was.”
             
     
    Noni’s jacket was so big on her, she looked like a little Michelin man, tramping out into the snow. Rizzoli followed in the footprints made by Noni’s rubber boots, feeling like a lowly private marching behind a determined general. Noni led her across the abbey courtyard, past the fountain where snow had piled like layers on a wedding cake. At the front gate, she stopped, and