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powerful?
    She turned to look at Rizzoli. “You’re Catholic, Jane.
Aren’t
you?”
    Rizzoli snorted as she picked through Camille’s closet.
“Me?
Catechism dropout.”
    “When did you stop believing?”
    “About the same time I stopped believing in Santa Claus.
Never
did make it to my confirmation, which to this day still pisses off my dad.
Jesus,
what a boring closet. Let’s see, shall I wear the black or the brown
habit
today? Why would any girl in her right mind want to be a nun?”
    “Not all nuns wear habits. Not since Vatican II.”
    “Yeah, but that chastity thing, that hasn’t changed.
Imagine
no sex for the rest of your life.”
    “I don’t know,” said Maura. “It might be a
relief
to stop thinking about men.”
    “I’m not sure that’s possible.” She shut the
closet
door and slowly scanned the room, looking for . . . what? Maura wondered. The
key
to Camille’s personality? The explanation for why her life had ended so
young,
so brutally? But there were no clues here that Maura could see. This was a room
swept
clean of all traces of its occupant. That, perhaps, was the most telling clue of
all to Camille’s personality. A young woman scrubbing, always scrubbing
away
at dirt. At sin.
    Rizzoli crossed to the bed and dropped down to her hands and knees
to look underneath. “Geez, it’s so clean under here you can eat off
the
goddamn floor.”
    Wind shook the window and sleet clattered against the glass. 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