The Sinner Read Online Free PDF Page B

India wasn’t an easy one. And there was
violence—a
terrorist attack on her village. That’s when she returned to us. Here, she
could
feel safe again.”
    “She didn’t have family to go home to?”
    “Her closest relative was a brother, who died two years ago.
We’re
her family now, and Graystones is her home. When you’re tired of the world
and
in need of comfort, Detective,” the Abbess asked gently, “don’t you go home?”
    The answer seemed to unsettle Rizzoli. Her gaze shifted to the
wall,
where the crucifix hung. Just as quickly, it caromed away.
    “Reverend Mother?”
    The woman in the grease-stained blue jumper was standing in the
hall,
looking in at them with flat, incurious eyes. A few more strands of brown hair
had
come loose from her ponytail and hung limp about her bony face. “Father
Brophy
says he’s on his way over to deal with the reporters. But there are so many
of them calling now that Sister Isabel’s just taken the phone off the hook.
She doesn’t know what to tell them.”
    “I’ll be right there, Mrs. Otis.” The Abbess turned
to Rizzoli. “As you can see, we’re overwhelmed. Please take as much
time
as you need here. I’ll be downstairs.”
    “Before you go,” said Rizzoli, “which room is
Sister
Camille’s?”
    “It’s the fourth door.”
    “And it’s not locked?”
    “There are no locks on these doors,” said Mary Clement.
“There
never have been.”
     
    The smell of bleach and Murphy’s Oil Soap was the first
thing
Maura registered as she stepped into Sister Camille’s room. Like Sister
Ursula’s,
this room had a mullioned window facing the courtyard and the same low,
wood-beamed
ceiling. But while Ursula’s room felt lived-in, Camille’s room had
been
so thoroughly scrubbed and sanitized it felt sterilized. The whitewashed walls
were
bare except for a wooden crucifix hanging opposite the bed. It would have been
the
first object Camille’s gaze would fix upon when she awakened each morning,
a
symbol of her focused existence. This was a chamber for a penitent.
    Maura gazed down at the floor and saw where areas of fierce
scrubbing
had worn down the finish, leaving patches of lighter wood. She pictured fragile
young
Camille down on her knees, clutching steel wool, trying to sand away . . . what?
A century’s worth of stains? All traces of the women who had lived here
before
her?
    “Geez,” said Rizzoli. “If cleanliness is next to
Godliness,
this woman was a saint.”
    Maura crossed to the desk by the window, where a book lay open. Saint
Brigid of Ireland: A Biography. She imagined Camille reading at this
pristine
desk, the window light playing on her delicate features. She wondered if, on
warm
days, Camille ever removed her novice’s white veil and sat bareheaded,
letting
the breeze through the window blow across her cropped blond hair.
    “There’s blood here,” said Frost.
    Maura turned and saw that he was standing by the bed, staring down
at the rumpled sheets.
    Rizzoli peeled back the covers, revealing bright red stains on the
bottom sheet.
    “Menstrual blood,” said Maura, and saw Frost flush and
turn
away. Even married men were squeamish when it came to intimate details of
women’s
bodily functions.
    The clang of the bell drew Maura’s gaze back to the window.
She
watched as a nun emerged from the building to open the gate. Four visitors
wearing
yellow slickers entered the courtyard.
    “CSU’s arrived,” said Maura.
    “I’ll go down and meet them,” said Frost, and he
left
the room.
    Sleet was still falling, ticking against the glass, and a layer of
rime distorted her view of the courtyard below. Maura caught a watery view of
Frost
stepping out to greet the crime-scene techs. Fresh invaders, violating the
sanctity
of the abbey. And beyond the wall, others were waiting to invade as well. She
saw
a TV news van creep past the gate, cameras no doubt rolling. How did they find
their
way here so quickly? Was the scent of death so