Jane Rizzoli hasn't been able to sleep for days. It is taking a toll on her now, pacing the streets of Boston, waiting for the suspect they were targeting to show up, the light from the surrounding buildings stabbing her eyes until she finally gives in and puts her sunglasses on, but the effect remains: she is dizzy, lightheaded—she's not sure she could identify the suspect even if he jumped out in front of her. In desperation, she retreats to a shadowy corner, rests her back against the relatively cool limestone of its facade, and tilts her head back, gulping air. She tries to ignore the light, the heat, and the worried gaze of her best friend and coworker, Maura Isles.
Suddenly there is motion in the corner of her left eye—a car, careening down the empty street: driven, she is suddenly sure, by their suspect, and she feels a spasm of joy at the certainty that they had him now, that it was over, and then she concentrates on her job, putting aside her exhaustion, the toll the heat is taking on her, the dizziness that has been overtaking her increasingly frequently over the last week. She is Jane Rizzoli, and she is going to take this guy down.
The car stops abruptly several yards away from where Jane stands hidden in an alcove on the outside of the building, and the suspect—looking bedraggled—stumbles out of the driver's seat, steadying himself against the car. He looks exhausted too, is Jane's first, almost compassionate thought. Then she notices the line of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth, and the way he is pressing one of his hands to his abdomen: it too is covered in blood. He has been stabbed. She spends an instant debating whether or not to help him, and then—why the hell not—runs out of her hiding spot toward the place where he's parked at the curb.
"Jimmy," she calls out. "What are you doing here?" This is the last thing she remembers thinking before the world became very, very loud as gunfire explodes the air around her. Jane's instincts work just long enough to get her to the ground, and then, overwhelmed (uncharacteristically) by the noise and the surprise and the exhaustion, she passes out in a pile by the suspect's car.
When she wakes up all she can see is Maura's worried face; all she can hear was Maura's voice, issuing in a frenetic, worried, instructive stream: "Did anyone see if she was hit? Is she bleeding? We should put her feet up on something—is there anything-" and then Jane feels Maura grab her legs and place them on her own lap. "Loosen her belt," is the next thing out of Maura's mouth, and at that Jane sits bolt upright so fast she almost faints again.
"Oh no you don't," she snaps, after the pinwheeling colors have mostly faded from her eyes, and she is surprised to hear her voice reduced to a weak, scraping croak. Then she looks at Maura again, takes in the look of concern on Maura's face. "What happened?"
The medical examiner sighs, shifts, put her hands on Jane's ankles, which are still resting in Maura's lap. "You fainted, Jane," she says quietly.
"And...and the suspect? Jimmy?"
"He's dead. Stab wound. I'm going to go examine him next," she says, but she makes no move to go.
"I can't believe I fainted," Jane mumbles to herself, putting her hands over her face, and she's surprised that Maura can tell what she's trying to say but apparently she can because the next thing she knows Maura is leaning even closer to her—she can smell her perfume—and pulling Jane's hands off her face and talking to her, seriously and quietly:
"You seem exhausted. This case has taken a toll on you. Have you been sleeping?" Jane wants to protest, wants to pretend that no, she isn't exhausted to the point of fainting in the middle of a stakeout, for Christ's sake, but something in Maura's tone is persuasive and her head is pounding and instead of answering she closes her eyes. She feels, through the soles of her feet, that Maura has leaned back, hears her sigh, and blacks out again.
When she wakes up she is on Maura's couch, and for an instant, right before she begins to wonder why she is there and how she got there, she feels a huge wave of relief wash over her, a sense that, with Maura nearby, she will be safe. There is nobody in the room. The crack of sky she can see through the window opposite her is dark; it must be night. Her head is still pounding. She is considering the merits of going back to sleep—the first uninterrupted sleep she has had in what seems like forever—when Maura walks into the room and notices that Jane has woken up.
"Jane," she says without prelude. "We need to talk about what's going on with you."
"What," Jane quips weakly, "not even a hello?" Maura ignores her, sits down on the sofa at Jane's feet, and lifts the other woman's legs into her lap. She strokes them absentmindedly, which embarrasses Jane for some reason. For a moment both women are silent, and Jane, still groggy, takes a moment to stare at Maura.
She is remarkably collected for someone in the middle of investigating a murder case, but Jane has come to realize that this is always true: Maura Isles always looks like she's in control, some distant, otherworldly paragon of order. She's changed out of the flawlessly elegant navy blue suit she wore to the stakeout—the stakeout—into what looks like pajamas, which makes Jane wonder again just how long she's been asleep. Maura's hair is pulled back from her face, which, Jane is just now realizing, looks very worried. She realizes that if she were in Maura's situation, if one of her colleagues—let alone her closest friend—had passed out on the job, she would be very worried too. Then Maura starts to talk.
"You're clearly exhausted, Jane. I'm worried about what this case has taken out of you.
"We've taken the body into custody. While you were...sleeping, I did a preliminary examination, and, combined with evidence taken from the scene, it seems likely that the murderer was an amateur, probably a relative of one of the people Jimmy murdered. This hypothesis is strengthened by the fact that several of Mr. Ramirez's relatives were found at the scene of the crime," she clears her throat, "holding guns that had recently been fired." So that explains the gunfire, Jane thought to herself. "These people are in custody. Frost and Korsak are probably questioning them now. It's not clear at this point why they were unable to finish the job they started with the knife this afternoon, but I expect that will be cleared up relatively quickly.
"What I'm trying to say—and I know you don't want to hear this, Jane—is that everything will be just fine without you for a little while. You should relax, right now, try to work off some of that sleep debt." Maura is going her best to sound reassuring, and yet her smile is tremulous, not the wide, unguarded grin that Jane so loves to see. She smooths the blanket over Jane's leg for a moment, fidgets with the weave, and then stands up to go. Before leaving the room, however, she looks back at Jane again. "Go to sleep," she says. "You'll be fine." And Jane has no choice but to obey the injunction.
Instead of the charmed slumber she enjoyed before, however, Jane is plagued by nightmares. It's the return of the same ones that have been plaguing her for weeks, the ones that scared her awake for the past week. It is Maura who is in danger in these dreams, Maura who dies, the loss of Maura that coats her tongue with panic when she wakes up, the electric void in the pit of her stomach because Maura was, for a moment, dead. It takes her minutes to calm down, for her heart to stop racing, and in that time she realizes three things: the sun is shining through the blinds; she is still at Maura's house; and Maura is gone. She sits up, then gingerly raises herself up off of the couch, and walks towards the kitchen on unstable legs. She realizes, at this point, that she is wearing nothing but a tank top that she doesn't recognize as her own and her underwear. The clock on Maura's stove says 11:38, which Jane knows to be impossible, but she looks again and there it is: she has slept for hours. She gets herself a glass of water and drinks it while wondering idly where Maura is. Probably at work, she assumes. She turns away from the sink and notices a note on the counter. It reads:
"Jane-
I've gone to work. Make yourself at home. I'll come check on you later.
-Maura"
"Later?" Jane wonders aloud. When is later? When is now, even? Her headache is back. She supports herself against the counter, looking bleakly out over the room.
Several minutes later, there is the sound of a key in the lock and the door opens, revealing Maura Isles in all her glory. She looks flustered, juggling her keys and purse and a duffel bag, and, when she finally spots Jane, a little guilty. "Jane!" she exclaims. "You're awake!" She drops the duffel bag by the door and comes into the kitchen, puts her purse down on the counter. Without further ado begins talking at Jane. Jane is confused for a moment why Maura is talking so frantically, but then the reason becomes clear: Maura is nervous. And as Maura talks Jane realizes why Maura is nervous, and why she should be nervous, because what Maura is suggesting is that she, Jane, should take a week off from work, and that she, Maura, has not only decided where she should go, is not only insisting on coming along so she can "keep an eye on" Jane, but has already "informed" Jane's lieutenant that Jane will be taking this vacation. "I stopped by your apartment on the way home," she finished breathlessly, "and I packed a bag for you—we're only going to my family's vacation house in Provincetown, you won't need anything fancy—so we can leave now." She smiles.
"Maura," Jane gapes at her friend for a moment, taken aback by the stream of words coming out of her mouth, "don't you think...we should talk about this? Like maybe when I have some clothes on?" She gestures down at herself—although, honestly, any embarrassment she'd felt about being found almost-naked in Maura's kitchen had been subsumed by her amazement at Maura's astonishing proposal. Maura looks taken aback for maybe half a minute, looking down at Jane's bare legs as if only now noticing them before looking quizzically back up at Jane.
"There is no discussion, Jane," she says crisply. "You are clearly too exhausted to make decisions for yourself, as your little fainting spell yesterday shows." Jane is mad, sure, because where was she when this decision to take a week-long vacation was made? But she also realizes that arguing with Maura in her weakened state is probably futile. If Maura has already packed for her, what more can she do? Refuse to go? Sit on the floor like a child?
"Can I at least have some pants?"
"Sure, Jane, of course." Maura gestures to the duffel bag. "I put some sweatpants in that bag." Jane goes to the door and pulls on a pair of her own gray sweatpants.
"Whose shirt is this, by the way?" it occurs to her to ask. "And how did I get into it?"
Maura looks nervous again. "It's—it's mine, I thought it would be more comfortable than what you were wearing, and you weren't waking up, so I just put it on you. I hope...that's okay?" she cleared her throat. "You might want a shower, and maybe some lunch, and then we should be going."
"Wait—what? We're leaving right now?" Jane snaps. "Is this another one of those decisions you made for me? Did it not occur to you that I don't want to go on vacation? That having other people make decisions for me makes me nervous? Isn't this supposed to be relaxing?" Without waiting for Maura's reply she stomped off to the shower.
The hot water calms her a little bit, and she stands unmoving under it for minutes, trying to recollect her equanimity. First the return of the nightmare, then this...horrible surprise...she is feeling stressed out already. This vacation is a bad idea. But if Maura thought she should do it...She sighs to herself. She lets Maura take too much control over her life. It's ridiculous.
But on some level, she knows Maura's right. There's the edge of a headache returning, and she can feel that underlying exhaustion and tension. There's no way she's going to be productive this week, and she curses the fact. It makes her feel weak.
It is only when she gets out of the shower that she remembers that she doesn't have a towel. "Maura!" she shouts. "Where are your towels!" She heard a shuffle outside, Maura's footsteps approaching, the sound of a closet opening and closing, and then Maura is knocking lightly on the door.
"Jane?" she asks. "Can I come in?" and she does, without really waiting for an answer. It's obvious that she's just planning to hand the towel to Jane, but her gaze catches on the sight of the other woman standing tall, wet, and otherworldly in the middle of her bathroom. Jane notices a slight frown form between her eyebrows, and then Maura is turning away and Jane is wrapping herself in the towel, looking down and pushing her hair back and the door is shutting and Jane is alone. She doesn't know what this means. Nothing, probably. She dries herself with the towel, puts on the clothes she slept in.
Outside, Maura has prepared some kind of lunch for the two of them: it looks suspiciously like a salad. They don't make eye contact, and Jane can feel the moment in the bathroom hanging between them, but then she clears her throat, asks, "A salad? Really, Maura?"
"It's good for you!" Maura protests. "Just try it, Jane. This is organic Canadian arugula."
"You know what?" says Jane, walking past Maura towards the duffel bag by the door. "I'm not really hungry, Maura. I think I'll just put on some actual clothes." She grabs a t-shirt and some jeans from the bag, turns to go into the guest bedroom to change.
"Jane," Maura calls across the room. "I'm sorry about all of this. I hope—you'll be able to relax a little bit on this vacation."
Jane considers being mad, but she doesn't have any energy left. The last couple weeks have taken a toll on her. "Thank you for thinking of me, Maura," she says finally. And Maura looks surprised, grateful, relieved.
They leave at one in the afternoon, hoping to beat the rush hour traffic, which isn't too bad (maybe because it is Wednesday). Sometime around Hanover, in the flatlands of Southern Massachusetts, Jane drifts off to sleep, but she is woken up shortly after they cross the Sagamore Bridge by the sharp, stabbing sensation of hunger. "Maura," she whines, "I'm so hungry!" She is slouched low in her seat, still wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She feels sticky and tired and hungry, and a little bit like a small child. Maura glances over at her, smiles pityingly at the pathetic sight Jane knows she has become. She pulls a face to enhance the effect.
"Can you wait until we get a little further up-Cape?" Maura asks. "I know some good places to eat in Orleans." It is easier to capitulate. Jane watches the landscape flow by in all its hot, midsummer, tourist-town glory.
They eat lobster rolls in Orleans, stopping at a place off Route 6. It's not where Maura had wanted to go, but Jane is tired of waiting and her hunger is increasing, so it might be more accurate to say that Jane eats a lobster roll and Maura watches. Jane tries not to feel self-conscious, but she can feel the worry in Maura's gaze. Worry, and relief at seeing Jane wolf down the food.
It is approaching dusk as they arrive at Maura's vacation house, which is ridiculously well-situated: it is right up against Massachusetts Bay, overlooking the water. Jane is staring when Maura suggests, out of the blue: "Let's go for a swim!" Once again Jane wants to protest, wants to point out to Maura that they just arrived, that there will be plenty of time to swim later. She wants to point out that dusk is prime time for shark attacks. Instead, she acquiesces. They head inside to change into their swimming suits. Maura goes to the master bedroom, but not before she shows Jane her room: it is across the house from the master suite, Jane notices, and feels a stab of panic and being stranded alone in such a huge house, before she reflects that it's probably just courtesy to give your guests their own space.
She has one swimming suit, and Maura has managed to find it. It's old; she hasn't replaced it in probably a decade, but she hasn't had to. It's the most basic type imaginable, a swimsuit for the woman who doesn't want to think about swimsuits: black, one-piece. No fancy details. Relatively modest. It's warm, so she doesn't bother to put anything on over it before she strolls out to meet Maura.
She pokes around looking for a linen closet, eventually going down the hallway that leads to Maura's room before she finds one. She is rummaging around in it—doesn't Maura have any towels that are ragged enough to take to the beach?-when she hears a noise in the hallway and pulls her head out to look around.
What she sees nearly takes her breath away, for reasons she doesn't want to fathom. Maura is standing in the hallway peering at her. She is wearing a very revealing, decidedly not casual, emerald green bikini, and she is holding the back shut with one hand. When she speaks, it is with relief: "Jane, good, I thought I heard you out here. I underestimated the difficulty of fastening this bikini top—could you help me out?" And without further ado she turns and presents her back, her shoulder blades, her spine, her hips—Jane steps forward and, somewhat clumsily, puts her hand around Maura's, holding the strap of the bikini together until she can get it hooked.
There is a fumbling of fingers and somehow it's done, but Jane can't remember it happening. Maura turns around looking satisfied, a look that quickly perishes when she looks at Jane's swimming suit.
"Don't you have any other bathing suits?" She asks plaintively. "That one's so plain!"
"Maura, you packed my damn bag for me, you must know I don't have any other swimming suits," Jane retorts.
"Well, I guess...I suppose I was just hoping that maybe you had another hidden away somewhere..." Jane is flabbergasted again, but for a different reason; sometimes she just cannot tell what goes on in Maura's head. "We'll just have to buy you a better one tomorrow," Maura concludes, looking significantly happier. "Let's go!"
The sun was setting over the beach. It is almost high tide, and Jane is suddenly very nervous. "Maura, couldn't we postpone this a little? Like, say, until tomorrow, when it'll be low tide again and the sun will be out and the sharks won't be biting?"
"Don't be silly," Maura says. "There aren't any sharks in this region of the Cape. Come on, Jane. A swim will calm you down." And with that, she walks defiantly down the beach and into the water.
"No, it won't," Jane grumbles to herself. "It will just make me nervous and paranoid." She stands on the edge of where the sand begins, not too far from the water, and she watches, absentmindedly, as Maura is increasingly enveloped by the water until there is nothing left but her head showing, her hair hanging down in a braid, the commotion in the water by her shoulders where her arms are pumping, keeping her afloat. She sees Maura turn around in the water, call out to Jane: "Come on in! The water's great!"
Jane is tired and cold, suddenly, waves of goosebumps are spilling over her skin and she doesn't know why but there are tears forming in her eyes. She wraps her arms around herself and turns away from the sight of Maura in the water, trudges back up to the house, without even getting her swimming suit wet.