Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(79)

Down the hall, I pass the guest bedroom where Detective Rizzoli and her husband are staying. Odd that I did not immediately pick up on the fact they were married to each other, until after I’d spent the whole afternoon with them. They’d shown me photo after photo of possible suspects on a laptop computer. So many faces, so many men. By the time it was dinner hour, the photos were all blending together. I rubbed my tired eyes and when I opened them again, I saw Agent Dean’s hand resting on Detective Rizzoli’s shoulder. It was not just a platonic pat, but the caress of a man who cared about this woman. That’s when the other details came into focus: the matching wedding rings. The way they finished each other’s sentences. The fact he didn’t have to ask, but simply stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee before handing it to her.

On the surface, they’d been strictly business, especially the aloof and chilly Gabriel Dean. But over dinner, after a few glasses of wine, they started to talk about their marriage and their daughter and the life they shared in Boston. A complicated life, I think, because of their demanding jobs. Now their work has brought them all the way to my remote corner of the Western Cape.

I tiptoe past their closed door into the kitchen and pour a generous splash of scotch into a glass. Just enough to make me drowsy, but not drunk. I know by experience that while a little scotch will help me fall asleep, too much will make me wake up in a few hours with nightmares. I settle into a chair at the kitchen table and slowly nurse the drink as the clock ticks loudly on the wall. If Chris were awake, we’d take our drinks outside to the garden and sit together in the moonlight to enjoy the scent of night-blooming jasmine. I never go out in the dark by myself. Chris tells me I’m the bravest woman he knows, but courage wasn’t what kept me alive in Botswana. Even the lowliest creature does not want to die and will fight to stay alive; in that way, I am no braver than any rabbit or sparrow.

A noise behind me makes me bolt straight in my chair. I turn to see Detective Rizzoli walk barefoot into the kitchen. Her uncombed hair looks like a wild crown of black thorns and she’s dressed in an oversized T-shirt and men’s boxer shorts.

“Sorry if I startled you,” she says. “I just came out for a glass of water.”

“I can offer you something stronger, if you’d like.”

She eyes my glass of scotch. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to drink alone.” She pours herself a glass, adds an equal part of water, and settles into the chair across from me. “So do you do this often?”

“Do what?”

“Drink alone.”

“It helps me fall asleep.”

“Having trouble with that, huh?”

“You already know I do.” I take another sip, but it doesn’t help me relax because she’s watching me with dark, probing eyes. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Jet lag. It’s six P.M. Boston time, and my body refuses to be fooled.” She takes a sip and doesn’t flinch in the least at the bite of the scotch. “Thank you again for offering your guest room.”

“We couldn’t have you driving all the way back to Cape Town tonight. Not after the hours you spent with me. I hope you don’t have to fly back to the States right away. It’d be a shame if you didn’t see some of the country.”

“We get one more night in Cape Town tomorrow.”

“Only one?”

“I had a tough enough time convincing my boss to approve this trip. We’re all about cost cutting these days. God forbid we have any fun on their dime.”

I look down at my scotch, which gleams like liquid amber. “Do you actually like your work?”

“It’s what I always wanted to do.”

“Catch killers?” I shake my head. “I don’t think I’d be able to stomach it. Seeing the things you see. Coming face-to-face every day with what people are capable of.”

“That’s something you’ve already seen firsthand.”

“And I never want to see it again.” I tip the rest of the drink into my mouth and swallow it in one gulp. Suddenly it’s not enough, not nearly enough to settle my nerves. I get up to pour myself a refill.

“I used to have nightmares, too,” she says.

“No wonder, with your line of work.”

“I got over them. You can, too.”

“How?”

“The same way I did. Slay the monster. Put him away where he can’t hurt you or anyone else.”

I laugh as I recork the bottle. “Do I look like a policewoman?”

“You look like a woman who’s terrified of just going to sleep.”

I set the bottle down on the counter and turn to her. “You didn’t live through what I did. You may hunt killers, but they aren’t hunting you.”

“You’re wrong, Millie,” she says quietly. “I know exactly what you’re living through. Because I’ve been hunted, too.” She fixes me with a steady gaze as I sink back into the chair.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It was several years ago, around the time I met my husband. I was searching for a man who’d killed a number of women. Considering what this killer did to them, I’m not sure I’d call him human, but some other species. A creature who fed off pain and fear. Who took pleasure in their terror. The more afraid you were, the more he desired you.” She lifts the glass to her lips, takes a deep swallow. “And he knew I was afraid.”