It's raining, it's dark, it's night. Rizzoli's alone, sitting at her kitchen table amidst piles of case papers. She rolls a whiskey glass back and forth in one hand, taking sharp swallows now and then, absently drinking. The evidence in front of her doesn't get any clearer as she drinks, but she keeps doing it anyway, hoping for sleep at least.
Her wish is granted when her head starts to fall slowly towards the mess of papers. The whiskey tumbler falls from her fingertips to the floor, it's crash waking the detective from her reverie.
Rizzoli is not sleeping, nor is she too drunk to think, even if she wishes she were. Her height is lost on her slumped posture, her hair is a mane of tangles drawn into what just barely resembles a ponytail. Nobody from the department would have believed it until now, but Detective Jane Rizzoli felt entirely defeated.
The glass is everywhere, all over the documents she had gone to such efforts to get, and now precious evidence is beginning to smell like whiskey. She should probably clean it up, but then she should probably clean herself up, too.
Rizzoli stands up in her dark apartment, looks at the mess in front of her with a look like desperation, and goes in exactly the other direction as fast as she can.
The night is colder outside than in, as usual. She hunches into herself as much as possible, tries to fold up her long frame underneath an umbrella as she walks. Rizzoli's boots splash through the streets of Boston, their soles carry memories of blood.
Like a lighthouse lantern, the kitchen of the upper-middle class suburban house in front of her beckons Rizzoli closer. Her walks always bring her here, even now, when it's the last place she should be. From the dark corner she's hiding in, the house appears to loom over her, the light that pours out seems to be demanding a warmth Rizzoli just can't feel no matter where she is. She shivers.
There's a shadow in the kitchen. Someone turns a light on, and another shadow moves across the room. Rizzoli's fists clench unconsciously, she readies herself for a sprint with no consent from her brain. The woman in there is her life, and she knows that all too well now.