Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Eastern European. Russian, maybe.
    The woman ripped off her own wristband and tossed it aside. Then she grabbed Jane’s wrist and gave her ID band a sharp yank as well. It snapped apart.
    “There. No more labels,” the woman said. She glanced at Jane’s wristband. “Rizzoli. This is Italian.”
    “Yes.” Jane kept her gaze on the woman’s face, afraid to even glance downward, to draw her attention to the manila folder lying beneath her bare foot. The woman took her steady eye contact as a sign of connection between them. Up till now, Crazy Lady had scarcely said a word to any of them. Now she was talking. This is good, thought Jane. An attempt at conversation. Try to connect with her, establish a relationship. Be her friend. She wouldn’t kill a friend, would she?
    The woman was looking at Jane’s pregnant belly.
    “I’m having my first baby,” said Jane.
    The woman looked up at the clock on the wall. She was waiting for something. Counting the minutes as they ticked by.
    Jane decided to dip her toe further into conversational waters. “What—what is your name?” she ventured.
    “Why?”
    “I just wanted to know.”
So I can stop calling you the Crazy Lady.
    “It makes no difference. I am dead already.” The woman looked at her. “So are you.”
    Jane stared into those burning eyes, and for one frightening moment she thought: What if it’s true? What if we
are
already dead, and this is just a version of hell?
    “Please,” the receptionist murmured. “Please let us go. You don’t need us. Just let us open the door and walk out.”
    The woman began to pace again, her bare feet intermittently treading across the fallen chart. “You think they will let you live? After you have been with me? Everyone who is with me dies.”
    “What’s she talking about?” Dr. Tam whispered.
    She’s paranoid, thought Jane. Having delusions of persecution.
    The woman suddenly came to a stop and stared down at the manila folder near her feet.
    Don’t open it. Please don’t open it.
    The woman picked it up, eyeing the name on the cover.
    Distract her, now!
    “Excuse me,” she said. “I really—I really need to use the bathroom. Being pregnant and all.” She pointed to the waiting room toilet. “Please, can I go?”
    The woman dropped the chart down on the coffee table where it landed just out of Jane’s reach. “You do not lock the door.”
    “No. I promise.”
    “Go.”
    Dr. Tam touched Jane’s hand. “Do you need help? Do you want me to go with you?”
    “No. I’m okay,” said Jane and she rose on unsteady legs. Wanted desperately to sweep up the medical chart as she moved past the coffee table, but the Crazy Lady was watching her the whole time. She walked to the restroom, turned on the light, and closed the door. Felt sudden relief to be alone, and not staring at a gun.
    I could lock the door anyway. I could just stay in here and wait it out until it’s over.
    But she thought of Dr. Tam and the orderly and Glenna and Domenica clinging to one another on the couch. If I piss off Crazy Lady, they’ll be the ones to suffer. I’d be a coward, hiding behind a locked door.
    She used the toilet and washed her hands. Scooped water into her mouth, because she did not know when she’d next get a chance to drink. Wiping her wet chin, she scanned the small restroom, searching for something she could use as a weapon, but all she saw were paper towels and a soap dispenser and a stainless steel trash can.
    The door suddenly swung open. She turned to see her captor staring at her.
She doesn’t trust me. Of course she doesn’t trust me.
    “I’m finished,” said Jane. “I’m coming out now.” She left the restroom and crossed back to the couch. Saw that the medical chart was still lying on the coffee table.
    “Now we sit and wait,” the woman said, and she settled into a chair, the gun on her lap.
    “What are we waiting for?” Jane asked.
    The woman stared at her. Said, calmly: “The end.”
    A shudder went through Jane. At the same time, she felt something else: a tightening in her abdomen, like a hand slowly squeezing into a fist. She held her breath as the contraction turned painful, as sweat beaded on her forehead. Five seconds. Ten. Slowly it eased off, and she leaned back against the couch, breathing deeply.
    Dr. Tam frowned at her. “What’s wrong?”
    Jane swallowed. “I think I’m in labor.”
     
    “We’ve got a cop in there?” said Captain Hayder.
    “You can’t let this