Read The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel for Free Online

Maura turned and watched Frost and the CSTs cross toward the chapel. One of the techs suddenly slid across the stones, arms flung out like a skater as he struggled to stay upright. We’re all struggling to stay upright, Maura thought. Resisting the pull of temptation, just as we fight the pull of gravity. And when we finally fall, it’s always such a surprise.
    The team stepped into the chapel, and she imagined them standing in a silent circle, staring down at Sister Ursula’s blood, their breaths marked by puffs of steam.
    Behind her there was a thud.
    She turned and was alarmed to see Rizzoli sitting on the floor next to the toppled chair. She had her head hanging between her knees.
    “Jane.” Maura knelt beside her. “Jane?”
    Rizzoli waved her away. “I’m okay. I’m okay. . . .”
    “What happened?”
    “I just . . . I think I got up too fast. I’m just a little dizzy. . . .” Rizzoli tried to straighten, then quickly dropped her head again.
    “You should lie down.”
    “I don’t need to lie down. Just give me a minute to clear my head.”
    Maura remembered that Rizzoli had not looked well in the chapel, her face too pale, her lips dusky. At the time she’d assumed it was because the detective was chilled. Now they were in a warm room, and Rizzoli looked just as drained.
    “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” Maura asked.
    “Uh . . .”
    “Don’t you remember?”
    “Yeah, I guess I ate. Sort of.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “A piece of toast, okay?” Rizzoli shook off Maura’s hand, an impatient rejection of any help. It was that fierce pride that sometimes made her so difficult to work with. “I think I’m coming down with the flu.”
    “You’re sure that’s all it is?”
    Rizzoli shoved her hair off her face and slowly sat up straight. “Yeah. And I shouldn’t have had all that coffee this morning.”
    “How much?”
    “Three—maybe four cups.”
    “Isn’t that overdoing it?”
    “I needed the caffeine. But now it’s eating a hole in my stomach. I feel like puking.”
    “I’ll walk you to the bathroom.”
    “No.” Rizzoli waved her away. “I can make it, okay?” Slowly she rose to her feet and just stood for a moment, as though not quite confident of her footing. Then she squared her shoulders, and with a hint of the old Rizzoli swagger, walked out of the room.
    The clang of the gate bell drew Maura’s gaze back to the window. She watched as the elderly nun once again emerged from the building and shuffled across the cobblestones to answer the call. This new visitor did not need to plead his case; the nun at once opened the gate. A man dressed in a long black coat stepped into the courtyard and laid his hand on the nun’s shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort and familiarity. Together they walked toward the building, the man moving slowly to match her arthritic gait, his head bent toward her as though he did not want to miss hearing a single word she said.
    Halfway across the courtyard, he suddenly stopped and looked up, as though he sensed that Maura was watching him.
    For an instant, their gazes met through the window. She saw a lean and striking face, a head of black hair, ruffled by the wind. And she caught a glimpse of white, tucked beneath the raised collar of his black coat.
    A priest.
    When Mrs. Otis had announced that Father Brophy was on his way to the abbey, Maura had imagined him to be an elderly, gray-haired man. But the man gazing up at her now was young—no older than forty.
    He and the nun continued toward the building, and Maura lost sight of them. The courtyard was once again deserted, but the trampled snow bore a record of all who had walked across it that morning. The morgue transport team would soon arrive with their stretcher and add yet more footprints to the snow.
    She took a deep breath, dreading the return to the cold chapel, to the grim task that still lay before her. She left the room and went down to await her team.

T HREE
     
    J ANE R