The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 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.