The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

The patient’s chest rose and fell only because of the air forced into her lungs with each whoosh of the ventilator bellows.
    Maura took out a penlight and shone it into Ursula’s eyes.
    Neither pupil responded to the light.
    Straightening, she suddenly sensed someone watching her. She turned and was startled to see Father Brophy standing in the doorway.
    “The nurses called me,” he said. “They thought it might be time.”
    He had dark circles under his eyes, and beard stubble darkened his jaw. As usual, he wore his clerical garb, but at that early hour, his shirt was wrinkled. She imagined him, newly roused from sleep, rolling out of his bed and stumbling into his clothes. Reaching automatically for that shirt as he left the warmth of his bedroom.
    “Would you like me to leave?” he asked. “I can come back later.”
    “No, please come in, Father. I was just going to review the record.”
    He nodded and stepped into the cubicle. The space suddenly felt too small, too intimate.
    She reached for the chart, which Sutcliffe had left behind. As she settled onto a stool near the bed, she was suddenly aware, once again, of her own scent, and she wondered if Brophy could smell it too. The scent of Victor. Of sex. As Brophy began to murmur a prayer, she forced herself to focus on the nurses’ notes.
    00:15: Vitals: BP up to 130/90, Pulse 80. Eyes open. Making purposeful movements. Squeezes right hand on command. Drs. Yuen and Sutcliffe called about change in mental status.
    00:43: BP up to 180/100, Pulse 120. Dr. Sutcliffe here. Patient agitated and trying to pull out ET tube.
    00:50: Systolic BP down to 110. Flushed and very agitated. Dr. Yuen here.
    00:55: Systolic 85, Pulse 180. IV rate to wide open . . .
    As the blood pressure plummeted, the notes grew terser, the handwriting more hurried, until it deteriorated to a barely legible scrawl. She could picture the events as they unfolded in this cubicle. The scramble to find IV bags and syringes. The nurse, scurrying back and forth to the medication room for drugs. Sterile wrappings torn open, vials emptied, correct dosages frantically calculated. All this while the patient thrashes, her blood pressure crashing.
    01:00: Code Blue called.
    Different handwriting, now. Another nurse, stepping in to record events. The new entries were neat and methodical, the work of a nurse whose duty during the code was only to observe and document.
    Ventricular fibrillation. DC cardioversion at 300 joules. IV Lidocaine drip increased to four mg/min.
    Cardioversion repeated, 400 joules. Still in V. Fib.
    Pupils dilated, but still reactive to light. . . .
    Not giving up yet, thought Maura. Not while the pupils react. Not while there’s still a chance.
    She remembered the first Code Blue that she had directed as an intern, and how reluctant she had been to concede defeat, even when it was clear that the patient could not be saved. But the man’s family had stood waiting right outside the room—his wife and two teenage sons—and it was the boys’ faces that Maura kept thinking of as she’d slapped on the defibrillator paddles, again and again. Both boys were tall enough to be men, with enormous feet and spotty faces, but they were crying children’s tears, and she had continued resuscitation efforts long beyond the stage of futility, thinking: give him one more shock. Just one more.
    She realized that Father Brophy had fallen silent. Looking up, she found him watching her, his gaze so focused that she felt personally invaded.
    And, at the same time, strangely aroused.
    She closed the chart, a crisply businesslike gesture to disguise her confusion. She had just come from Victor’s bed, yet here she was, drawn to this man, of all people. She knew that cats in heat could attract males with their scent. Was that the signal she gave off, the scent of a receptive female? A woman who has gone so long without sex that she cannot get enough of it?
    She rose and reached for her coat.
    He stepped toward her to help her put it on. Stood close behind her, holding it open as she slid her arms into the sleeves. She felt his hand brush against her hair. It was an accidental touch, nothing more, but it set off an alarming shiver. She stepped away, quickly buttoning up.
    “Before you leave,” he said, “I want to show you something. Will you come with me?”
    “Where?”
    “Down to the fourth floor.”
    Puzzled, she followed him to the elevator. They stepped in and, once again, they were