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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 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