I don't own Rizzoli & Isles.
Her calendar is filled with anniversaries. There are birthdays, weddings, and days blocked out. This is one that hasn't been transferred from one calendar to the next. There's no need for her to write it down, no need to remind herself to call the travel agent to make arrangements for this annual trip.
In what was once her favorite town, she stops at the liquor store and florist, and at her last stop, Maura Isles sits in her car, staring at nothing for a long time before she gets out.
It seems wrong that it's sunny today, just like it was that day.
Maura kneels between the headstones. She begins on her left, clearing away small weeds, brushing blown grass from the headstone, replacing spent flowers with fresh. She pulls one beer from the bag, opens it, and puts it in front of the marker. "I miss you, my friend," she says, and pats the stone.
After a few seconds, she turns her attention to the second marker. She performs the same rituals, although more slowly because it is hard to see through tears.
When she is satisfied with her work, Maura opens two beers. One goes in front of the headstone. She rests her empty hand on it while she drinks the other. It tastes more bitter than usual, but that is no surprise since beer stopped tasting good long ago.
She finishes the bottle, leans over, and kisses the headstone. She pats the other one again and slowly gets up.
In the car, she takes one last look before pulling away, and it takes everything she has not to break open again.
-30-
