CHAPTER ONE
"Come home with me," Maura says.
Just says it like it's nothing. Like it doesn't make Jane's heart beat double time for a full five minutes. Says it like there aren't three other people sitting with them in their booth with faces that say they've read more into Maura's words than she knows were intended.
Ulterior motives, subterfuge, deception. These are all things she is capable of, but not Maura. The woman says what she means. And unless Maura ever actually says the words 'come to bed with me', then any continuation of their evening spent in the Dirty Robber will amount to what it always has; a shared bottle of wine back in Beacon Hill, some very mixed up feelings, and a sleepless night in the guest room.
It's a request as innocent as the doctor herself. And she can't do it. And she can't kick herself in the ass for declining either, but it doesn't stop her from wanting to do that, too.
"No, thanks. I just wanna get some sleep," she smiles as she stands, adds a firm "in my own bed" when Maura looks like she might say something else.
Looking away from pleading hazel eyes helps a great deal with her flimsy convictions. What Maura lacks in artifice she makes up for with perfect powers of persuasion, and Jane dodges that bullet by busying herself with goodbyes to the rest of the group.
Only as she's leaving does she make the mistake of meeting that knee-weakening gaze.
"Call me later?" Maura mouths with a face so hopeful, so full of love and concern that she almost wilts.
A hug wouldn't hurt, right? She would take a hug, even right here in front of the guys. Needs one if she's honest, after the day she's had. But something about the way she's been feeling lately has made her more standoffish than usual, and of course Maura has noticed.
She just has to have some self-control. Not just have it but keep it, too. Wrapping her long arms around that body might lead to holding on, or squeezing, which could lead to pressing their bodies together… And as much as she wants that, she really doesn't want that. Not with undisclosed feelings in the mix.
And she definitely doesn't want to march back to the table, pull Maura to her feet and kiss her senseless. She doesn't want that at all as she ducks her head, steps through the doorway and out into the night, swallows down a little lump of regret.
That thought, and many more like it, have never crossed her mind.
Her car is parked around the corner. It's not far but it is raining pretty heavily and so she hustles, boots splashing on the sidewalk as she digs for the keys in her jacket pocket.
She's not more than ten feet away, fifteen at the most, when she spots a hooded figure huddled low next to the passenger door.
Shrouded in darkness thanks to a busted light overhead, Jane curses the street department under her breath, decides she'll park elsewhere in future. "Hey. Can I help you?" she asks, feet still moving, eyelashes fluttering away clinging raindrops.
The stranger's face snaps around to her for half a second before he takes off running. In a heartbeat, she's sprinting in pursuit, noting as she passes the tool jammed into her door lock, its metal glinting in the moonlight.
"Son of a -" she gasps as long legs pump furiously.
For several exhausting minutes she follows, but try as she might she can't close the distance. Her heeled boots are no match for sneakers on wet concrete, and, though it pains her to admit, even her trim, gym-trained form is no match at forty years old and after a very long day for a lean-muscled eighteen-year old.
Rounding another corner into an even darker alleyway, she thinks she hears the metallic ting of feet on a fire escape but, as she skids to a stop atop glistening cobblestones, the would-be car thief is nowhere to be seen.
Five seconds pass as her eyes frantically search left and right, up and down the buildings on each flank while her body twists and spins. Nothing.
"Shit!"
It's not a dead end by any means. She can see for another fifty meters or so before the dark hulk of commercial trashcans and piles of trash bags obstruct her view. And for long seconds she peers intently, left hand on the service weapon strapped to her belt, willing her panting breaths to be silent and even.
But nothing moves.
Nothing but the twinkling reflections of Boston at night in the pools and puddles that dot the ground, their surfaces rippled by the continually falling rain.
Her sigh is heavy as she uses both hands to wipe wetness from reddened cheeks, pushes back the wild frizz of the once-sleek curls that now frame her face.
The lights always seem extra bright at this time of year, as fall creeps towards the holidays amidst plentiful showers and inky skies. But there's something odd about the glow that emanates from one of the rear service doors up ahead. A speck of ice white in the shiny blackness.
Of course she wants to investigate, would really love to know how her suspect managed to disappear into thin air. And so her feet are already moving of their own volition.
She should call it in. Ask for assistance. Assistance that she really shouldn't need when it's just her versus one lousy kid for Pete's sake. She could call it in, but then she'd have to admit to already having lost him and drag some poor unfortunate uniforms out here for something that really doesn't amount to much of anything.
He didn't manage to steal the car, or even rifle through the contents, but she'll head straight back in case he somehow made a U-turn with a mind to finishing the job. Right after she checks out the strange and blinding light radiating from the cracks around that doorway. It'll only take a minute.
Her right shoulder leads as she takes careful steps, crosses one foot over the other, unholstered pistol at the ready.
There are no noises from within when she reaches it, so it's probably not the back door to a nightclub or something similar. And it does occur to her that the last thing she needs tonight is to go and accidentally discover a crack house or illegal gambling den, but her luck always has been a little hit and miss. If that happens she almost certainly will call for backup.
She knows most of the businesses in this area, has frequented it regularly for years, but the dash to try and prevent her thief's escape has left her momentarily disoriented. Without going back to check the nearest posted street sign the best she can do is guess at the exact location.
The eerie illumination seems to have brightened with every forward step, so that now as she stands in front of it, eyes squinting and blinking, she would swear it was daylight.
Wasn't this alley dark a minute ago?
It's the strangest thing. Mesmerizing and mysterious. How can so much light shine from a heavy security door? It's like the whole block is on fire and as she makes to push her fingertips against the surface she expects it to burn.
What she doesn't expect is a skull-splitting pain in the back of her head.
"Uunhh!"
Her knees give out and she falls forward as her gun clatters to the ground. Fingers splayed, she tries to brace her collapsing body against the door, but her hand catches nothing but air as she crumbles. There is no door, its steel somehow dissolved into nothingness and she is pulled straight through, the shimmering light swallowing her whole.
A feeble, involuntary groan leaves her throat as she hits the ground hard. Her eyes roll back into her head and all the light fades.
She doesn't know the sound she makes. It's a distressed, mewling whine that spills out as semi-consciousness allows searing pain to register but not much else.
Uuunnngghhhh.
Rain splashes her face and she rolls over.
Freezing cold water soaks her front. Chills the skin beneath her shirt from neck to belly button. Draws frigid dampness into her crotch and spreads it down her legs.
Where am I?
Eyelids heavy. Cheek pressed to the floor. Nostrils full of the stench of trash and cigarette butts.
What happened?
Dripping wet, her matted hair is a curtain around her face as she braces herself against stinging cobblestone. It takes everything she has to drag her body up onto elbows and forearms and scraped knees.
"Ow. Fuck," she grinds out, clenches her teeth to stop them chattering. She tries to lift a hand to her head but she's too unsteady, almost lands on her face before she slams it back down.
Everything's fuzzy. Did she fall and hit her head? Get attacked with a two-by-four? It feels like it.
She was chasing someone. The car thief. Was it him?
Gun! I need my gun.
It's a fight to keep her eyes open as frantic, frozen palms sweep the ground in a desperate arc, searching through dirty puddles for her dropped weapon.
But it's gone. Big surprise. The suspect probably stole it after he hit her. She's lucky she wasn't killed right here.
Huffing, she sits back on her feet in a rush and immediately wishes she hadn't.
Her head swims violently and the veins in her temples pound as she clutches her bowed head with one hand and slams the other against the cold steel of the service door. It's not like Jane to puke easily but for a long moment, as she rests back on her knees, she thinks she might.
When it passes, she wipes filthy hands down her thighs so that exploratory fingers can move through her hair to check for blood. It is wet alright, still dripping like the rest of her, but not sticky and her hand comes away without any red.
Squeezing her eyes closed and forcing them open several times seems to help clear her vision a little, but fear keeps her dizzy. She's injured, defenseless, and an attacker might come back. She should get the hell out of here.
She reaches for her belt holster – stupid muscle memory - and a sudden rush of guilt makes her want to vomit again. Fucking idiot. How many shootings will there be tonight? How many robberies at gunpoint because of her recklessness? Cavanaugh will lose his mind. She'll be lucky not to lose her ba -
Wait. Her fingers tremble at the discovery.
Her standard issue Glock 22 sits neatly in its holster and her head swims again as her eyes snap downward. Practiced reflexes whip the weapon out through instinct to defend her prone form where she kneels. Not only is she wounded, she's also unbelievably confused.
Her chest heaves with panting breaths as she sweeps the sight in every direction. Shaking hands try to remain steady, but there's nothing and no one around. She's alone.
She sags back against the door, finally sucks in a big lungful of air, and breathes, "What the fuck?!"
Her gun hit the floor. She recalls hearing the distinctive metallic clatter, it echoes in her ears. It's bizarre, but she'd swear -
The light.
She remembers the light. It's gone now, leaving the entire alleyway in nothing but dingy shades of slate and charcoal.
She struggles to her feet and turns, eyes the doorway nervously. But it's just as solid and characterless as all the rest. No remarkable features and definitely no glowing aura.
She tests the door, pushes sore and frozen hands against the cold metal and finds it locked firm. Immovable.
Did she imagine it? She knows a head injury can wreak havoc. But she's not sure anything else she actually knows right now can be trusted.
It's an unsteady walk back to her car, staggering and with one hand holding the back of her head. She wishes it would help, but the pressure doesn't lessen the pain.
She could have sworn it was facing the other way but she finds her car exactly where she left it. And the tool the thief was using to try and bust the lock has vanished. Maybe he did come back this way after all, got rid of the evidence. The crime lab could run fingerprints. That's an option she'll think about later. Maybe.
For now, all she wants is to go home, dry off and swallow a handful of painkillers. And so she drives slowly away, hopes things will make more sense in the morning.