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IZZOLI STOOD at the bathroom sink, staring at herself in the mirror, and not liking what she saw. She could not help comparing herself to the elegant Dr. Isles, who always seemed regally serene and in control, every black hair in place, her lipstick a glossy slash of red on flawless skin. The image Rizzoli saw in the mirror was neither serene nor flawless. Her hair was as wild as a banshee’s, the black coils overwhelming a face that was pale and strained. I’m not myself, she thought. I don’t recognize this woman looking back at me. When did I turn into this stranger?
    Another wave of nausea suddenly washed through her and she closed her eyes, fighting it, resisting it as fiercely as though her life depended on it. Sheer willpower couldn’t hold back the inevitable. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she made a dash for the nearest toilet stall, getting there just in time. Even after her stomach had emptied itself, she lingered there with her head hung over the bowl, not yet daring to leave the security of the stall. Thinking:
It’s got to be the flu. Please, let it be the flu.
    When at last her nausea had passed, she felt so drained she sat down on the toilet and slumped sideways against the wall. She thought about the work that lay before her. All the interviews still to be done, the frustrations of trying to tease out any useful information from this community of stunned and silent women. And the standing around, worst of all, the exhaustion of just standing around while CSU performed its microscopic treasure hunt. Usually she was the one eagerly sifting for evidence, always more evidence, the one who fought for control of every crime scene. Now here she was, holed up in a toilet stall, reluctant to step back into the thick of it, where she always strove to be. Wishing she could hide out here, where it was blessedly silent, and where no one could glimpse the turmoil written on her face. She wondered how much Dr. Isles had already noticed; perhaps nothing. Isles had always seemed more interested in the dead than the living, and when confronting a homicide scene, it was the corpse who commanded her attention.
    At last, Rizzoli straightened and stepped out of the stall. Her head felt clear now, her stomach settled. The ghost of the old Rizzoli, creeping back into its skin. At the sink, she scooped icy water into her mouth to rinse out the sour taste, then splashed more water on her face. Buck up, girl. Don’t be a wimp. Let the guys see a hole in your armor, and they’ll aim straight for it. They always do. She grabbed a paper towel, blotted her face dry, and was about to drop the paper into the trash can when she paused, remembering Sister Camille’s bed. The blood on the sheets.
    The trash can was about half full. Among the mound of crumpled paper towels was a small bundle of toilet paper. Quelling her distaste, she unwrapped the bundle. Although she already knew what it contained, she was still jolted by the sight of another woman’s menstrual blood. She dealt with blood all the time, and had just seen a lake of it beneath Camille’s corpse. Yet she was far more shaken by the mere glimpse of this sanitary pad. It was soaked, heavy. This was why you left your bed, she thought. The warmth seeping between your thighs, and the dampness of the sheets. You got up and came into the bathroom to change pads, depositing this soiled one in the trash can.
    And then . . . what did you do then?
    She left the bathroom and returned to Camille’s chamber. Dr. Isles had left, and Rizzoli was alone in the room, frowning at the bloodstained sheets, the one bright blot in this colorless room. She crossed to the window and looked down, at the courtyard.
    Multiple footprints now tracked across the frosting of sleet and snow. Beyond the gate, yet another TV news van had pulled up outside the wall, and was setting up its satellite feed. The dead nun story, beamed straight into your living room. Sure to be a lead at five, she thought;