You are like me.
In all my free time in this joint, don't think I haven't done my research. I know my ways. I get newspapers. Dr. Isles, we are the same.
We find intrigue in the dead. We dissect. We love to pick em apart, searching their insides with the blade. The scalpel is the only thing that gives you control, isn't it? You dress well, put yourself together. It's an act. To hide what you really are, inside. You're me. You're Charles Hoyt, in a blonde wig and fancy, expensive clothes.
Ya know what else we have in common? We both want Jane Rizzoli.
I felt crippled with fear and crushing despair. It was the first time I had a breakdown like this in quite a while. I thought no one would be entering my autopsy lab any time soon, I just had to get this out.
It was easy to mask bravery with Hoyt, but what he said had struck a chord.
We are the same.
Although I may not advertise it, my feelings are hurt when people refer to me as "Queen of the Dead". I suppose "Queen" is a better pronoun than anything derogatory, but it makes me feel as if I'm a creeper who reigns among corpses. Then I remind myself, that is exactly what I do. Even though I like to say its for the right reasons, I do find interest in the dead. The dead are my life, as they are Hoyt's life. We have striking parallels in the area of not only death, but life.
It occured to me that I was neglected as a child. It hurt to admit, because I loved my adoptive parents and I know they loved me. But they were concerned with themselves. I don't know why they had chosen to adopt in the first place. I'm grateful, because I know I would be better in their comfortable home and the idea of expenses were abstract.
I often wondered who my real parents were. A lot of adoptive children seek them out, but not me. I don't know if it's time that binds me, or fear. I do not know them, and maybe I do not want to. Maybe I can't; they might be deceased.
I didn't hear the door open, but I soon heard footsteps and my heart nearly fell out of my mouth. "Jane!" I gasped, in surprise. I could tell from her expressive brown eyes, she could see I was crying and didn't like it. Jane sat down beside me, making me look into her eyes. As much as I adore looking into her eyes, it's a daunting task; I'm compelled, and I can't look away.
"Whats wrong?" Jane demanded to know, as if asking me the answer to a crucial math problem.
I cannot tell a lie. I am the real George Washington. I would tell about the Cherry Tree right away. "I dont want you to be upset. But when I interviewed Hoyt, he said we... we might be the same." Immediately, I could see Jane about to cut me off and she had that vein popping in her neck that indicated she was going to yell. I stopped her, placing my hands on hers. "No, listen. He made some great points. We both had neglected childhoods. We both took up an interest in disection, young. Med school, being the … loners, and the obsession with the dead, I can't -"
"You are not obsessed with the dead. Maura, listen." Jane stood now, her face inches from mine. I could smell her breath, thinking that she must have enjoyed a peanutbutter and fluff sandwich moments before. "He is a monster. You are a healer, a problem solver. You speak for the dead. I don't ever want you to compare yourself to him. You are my best friend. There isn't a harmful bone in your body." In typical Jane fashion, she exited before I could explain further.
"But Jane," I said to an empty room. "We both are painstakingly, stupidly, endlessly in love with you."