“Could you please take her into the house, Father?” Rizzoli said.

Maura asked: “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Go inside, Doc. Please. We’ll explain later.”

Maura felt Brophy’s arm slip around her waist, his firm grasp clearly communicating that this was not the time for her to resist. That she should simply obey the detective’s request. She allowed him to guide her to her front door, and she registered the secret thrill of the close contact between them, the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She was so aware of him standing beside her that her hands were clumsy as she inserted the key into her front door. Though they had been friends for months, she had never before invited Daniel Brophy into her house, and her reaction to him now was a reminder of why she had so carefully maintained a distance between them. They stepped inside, into a living room where the lamps were already on, lit by automatic timers. She paused for a moment near the couch, uncertain of what to do next.

It was Father Brophy who took command.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing her to the couch. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“You’re the guest in my house. I should be offering you the drink,” she said.

“Not under the circumstances.”

“I don’t even know what the circumstances are.”

“Detective Rizzoli will tell you.” He left the room and came back with a glass of water-not exactly her beverage of choice at that moment, but then, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask a priest to fetch the bottle of vodka. She sipped the water, feeling uneasy under his gaze. He sank into the chair across from her, watching her as though afraid she might vanish.