Maura hated her father. This she knew to be true. Her father was an awful man that murdered people who got in his way. All she wanted in life was to not be like him. So far, she was succeeding. However, sometimes, late at night, she sat and pondered whether or not her father really did love her. She would consider all the evidence, in a fashion that reminded her of the game where you would rip petals off of a flower in order to determine if someone loved you or not.
He loves me.
He warned her about the possibility of someone going after her.
He loves me not.
He had to kidnap her to do it.
He loves me.
He told Jane to protect her.
He loves me not.
He gave her up to be raised by adoptive parents.
He loves me.
He did it to protect her.
He loves me not.
He held her hostage at gunpoint, forcing her to fix his gunshot wound.
She would go around in circles in her head for hours until she finally pulled out the trump card.
It was little more than a fuzzy memory now, with the fog of her fever clouding the memory further. She had been sick in the hospital, and her parents had been vacationing in Europe. She was five years old, and the only person she had consistently was her nanny. She still didn't know how her father had found her, but she remembers him sneaking into her room while her nanny was off getting lunch. He had sat by her bedside, smoothing her hair lovingly and whispering to her that he loved her, and he was sorry she was sick. Before he left, he handed Maura a small pink bear, and Maura had instantly snuggled it to her young, feverish form.
Maura had researched this event as thoroughly as she could, discovering that her father had been involved in a particularly high profile case at the time, and how it must have been exceedingly dangerous for him to come visit her.
Despite the fact that she hated her father, and despite the fact that she wished he would have nothing to do with her, she still had that small pink bear. And on days when she was especially upset, she would pull it out and snuggle it. Because even if she did hate him, which she was getting less and less sure of as time progressed, he was still her father. And though she claimed over and over that it didn't mean anything, it did.